Darkest Before Dawn
by JMorrissey
Summary: After the Final Battle, Harry immediately realises that he is changing: the part of Voldemort that had lived and festered inside him for so long is gone, resulting in certain changes in Harry's character that he will have to recognise and understand. But how will this affect his relationship with his friends? And who will be there to get him back on his feet?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**This story begins on the morning straight after the Battle of Hogwarts, and everything has basically proceeded exactly as it did in the book. The only other information you should know is that any _italics _are simply showing Harry's thought process.**

**This is just a bit of an experiment, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.**

Waking up in my old Hogwarts dorm feels undeniably good, though perhaps a little strange. Everything is exactly as I remember it, from the comfortable springiness of the feather mattress to the regal red of the bed covers, and the quiet crackling of the small fire in the middle of the room. Since I last slept in one of these beds I have become a godfather, I have killed several people, I have lost even more people, an entire war has been fought and the darkest wizard ever to walk the earth has been vanquished by my hand. All of this, and the Gryffindor dorm is still welcoming enough that one wakes up feeling like royalty. If I didn't know better, I'd say that nothing had changed.

Unfortunately, I know that not to be true. Everything has changed. There are so many people who I'll never see again, so many people who I didn't get to say goodbye to, so much blood on my hands. I think it's safe to say that I'll remember Ron's cry of anguish as he first saw Fred's fate for the rest of my life, but even more tragic, in my opinion, is what happened to Professor Lupin. The last time I spoke to him he'd been the happiest I'd ever seen him; I'd known that in his life of hardship and misery, that had been a highpoint. Now, fate had wiped him from this earth just months after he'd finally achieved that joy. Truly, though, being named the godfather of his son is probably the biggest honour I'll ever receive.

Not only that, but somehow I feel slightly changed, too. I just feel... different. Oh well, it's probably nothing.

Putting my tugging heart to the side for a second, I reach over to the side of my pillow to grab my wand. When my fingers clench only air, panic clenches my heart like a cold fist. After all that has happened, I feel utterly naked without my wand within arm's reach. I flail around in fear trying to find it; I haven't slept without it by my head since my fourth year at Hogwarts, back when I still felt safe within these walls.

Relief washes the icy panic from my system as I find that it has simply rolled from the bed onto the floor and I stretch to pick it up, placing it back in its rightful place next to my head. As I rest back against my pillow, my elevated heart rate beginning to slow, I wonder whether I will ever be able to drop the defensive instincts that have become an integral part of me in the last year. After all, Voldemort, my greatest adversary, is dead. Gone forever. What little remains of his murderous following has fled into hiding. If they have any sense, they will have left the country by now because I intend to hunt each and every one of them down and make them hurt for the damage they have done to me, my friends and my home.

Yes, I definitely feel different. I mean, since when have I harboured such aggressive feelings? I can actually feel myself wanting to hurt them. I'm sure that the Harry of yesterday would have left the new Ministry, under temporary control by the more than capable Kingsley, to find the escaped Death Eaters and bring them to justice. This only reinforces my fear that I'm different somehow, and I'm worried that it's not necessarily for the better.

I shake my head. Perhaps this change that I can feel is only a temporary thing; so what if I've woken up a little more violently-motivated than usual? Hopefully I'm just acclimatising to not having Voldemort in my life.

As I clamber from my bed I meet the brisk morning air and shiver accordingly. Certainly, Hogwarts is a colder place than it had been in my six years here. Stretching my limbs, I am surprised to find that I don't have the aches and pains that I had grown used to recently. Things are, perhaps, looking up.

Instinctively checking that I have my wand safely tucked in my pocket, I walk to the window and grimace. The Gryffindor tower may have survived unscathed, but the rest of Hogwarts has not been so lucky. The courtyard is a mess of rubble, stone and dead creatures. Bridges, walls and roofs are collapsed. Several small fires still burn around the grounds, and a cloud of smoke that has gathered overhead is so dark, and so thick, that even the sun is struggling to pierce it. The damage to my home is immeasurable. McGonagall's going to have a hard time getting everything in order for the start of the new academic year, starting in only a few months, but she'll find a way, I am sure. Making a mental note to offer her a hand, I turn from the window to see see a pile of fresh clothes at the end of my bed.

"Thank you, Kreacher." I mutter. Even with the never ending depth of Hermione's purse, I had still only brought a few items of clothing with me on the Horcrux hunt and safe to say, opportunities to give them a good clean had been few and far between.

After having a brief shower, I exchange my tattered clothes, so tatty and irreparable that I doubt even any self-respecting tramp would be seen dead in them, with the ones that Kreacher has brought me. Though I am grateful for the elf's consideration, his collection is so bizarre that it could have come straight from the Lovegood family wardrobe. I mean, bright pink trousers and a lime green shirt decorated with an inscription saying "WORLD'S BEST CENTAUR"?

_Since when have I cared about what I look like? Merlin, I was still wearing Dudley's clothes until I was twelve!_

Once again I shake the doubts from my head and throw the clothes on, grateful simply because they feel fresh and clean, and the shirt doesn't smell too much of centaur. I check again that my wand is safe in my pocket before closing the door on the Gryffindor dorm with a soft thud. Somehow, I feel that I'll never sleep there again.

The Common Room is deserted when I go down. Well, almost deserted; Ron and Hermione are attacking each other's faces in the comfy armchair by the fireplace. Unsurprisingly, it doesn't look like either of them really know what they're doing. Certainly, from my perspective it resembles a rather vicious headbutt rather than a passionate kiss. There's a lot of touching, abrasion and contortion and not a huge amount of actual mouth-to-mouth contact, which I'm relatively certain is pretty important in the act of kissing. But hey, good for them.

They don't notice me as I walk past and I decide not to interrupt them. I know for a fact that Ron's fancied Hermione for years but the stupid idiot was too scared to tell her, so I guess it's about time that they finally start going out.

Unfortunately as I leave the Common Room, the Fat Lady does notice me. Old Harry used to find her quite amusing but today, she's really not someone I'm too keen to talk to, especially when there are so many other things that need my attention.

She says: "Well done, Harry. We won!"

"We won?" I laugh. "Sorry, I don't remember seeing you at the battle. Or was it you who single-handedly took down those giants?"

She sniffs indignantly and takes up a pose of superiority. "I don't remember you being so rude."

"Oh, fuck off."

_She's right, though. I don't remember me being so rude either. _

Yes, I'm definitely feeling different. Old Harry would never have even considered saying something so rude. I'm sure that something has changed in me; I don't feel like the Harry Potter of yesterday, yet I can't pin down exactly what is different. It's difficult to explain exactly why I'm so sure that something is different but I know it all the same. Everything about me is just subtly different to how I remember it. Even the Fat Lady, somebody who rarely observes anything other than her own reflection, has noticed that I've changed. That is definitely saying something.

Unsettled, I ignore her outraged screams and continue down the stairs. Every time I pass somebody, they congratulate me on my victory. Occasionally they even pat me on the back, the condescending gits! Generally I ignore them or mutter some kind of thank you, unless they happen to be female and attractive, when I put considerably more effort in. Regrettably, most of them seem to be put off when they see my shirt.

_Okay, I've started flirting with girls now, too. I swear that up until this morning I was still blushing whenever a girl so much as passed me in the corridor!_

By the time I reach the hall, I must have been congratulated at least fifty times. By the thirtieth, I was already questioning whether killing Voldemort really worth this? This doubt, however insincere, is immediately erased as I enter the Great Hall. Still serving as a mortuary, there is nothing "great" about the Great Hall right now. Yesterday, in the daze, confusion and disbelief of beating my arch rival, I clearly didn't quite observe just how tragic this room was and still is. I have seen a lot of sad, sad stuff in my seventeen years, but nothing holds a candle to this. I have never before seen so many dead bodies in one place, nor so many people crying.

As I approach the Weasley family, who are preparing to move Fred's body to the Burrow, I am hit by Ginny the human cannonball. I sigh; any former chance of making an inconspicuous entrance is now gone. She sobs on my shoulder for a few seconds before kissing me, tears still deluging from her puffy eyes. It's like Cho Chang all over again. Ginny's lips are as soft as ever, but it's difficult to enjoy the kiss under the circumstances, especially when I can see the various reactions from the Weasleys over my shoulder. Molly has put her grief to one side and is watching expectantly as if I am supposed to drop down on one knee and ask her daughter to marry me. Bill, who always was very protective of Ginny, is glaring daggers at me. As if this is my fault! Fleur has an exasperated expression on her face, but I'm not sure whether it's directed at me or at Ginny. It's always difficult to tell with the French beauty, when she seems to get annoyed by rather a lot.

Eventually I can't stand it any more and have to gently separate us. Ginny starts crying even more.

"Maybe this isn't the time or place?" I propose quietly, pointedly leaving open the possibility of us continuing this later, though I am hardly enthusiastic about the idea. But, hopefully it will stop her crying for a few minutes? Thankfully, she nods and lets me go but insists on holding my hand as we walk over to the rest of the family.

Molly, of course, views this gesture as a declaration of love, which is the last thing I need. I suspect that she just likes weddings. As for the other Weasleys, well, it wouldn't take Albus Dumbledore to sense the air of disapproval around them.

"I'm very happy for the two of you." The Weasley matriarch smiles.

Ginny beams through her tears.

_Apparently, I'm Ginny Weasley's boyfriend again. That didn't take long! _

Don't ask me how. Her siblings continue to glare at me. I could definitely do a lot worse, to be fair; she's a pretty girl with reasonable power and strength. But somehow, I just don't want what she has to offer.

Since when was I so repulsed by the idea of being Ginny's boyfriend? I swear even yesterday she was still the subject of my desires!

I decide that now is probably not the best time to express just how little I want a relationship with the youngest Weasley, considering we're sitting by the lifeless body of her brother. That would probably only make my situation worse.

I take a step back, feeling uncomfortable being so closely entwined in what was clearly family business. Fred had been a good friend, but it wasn't my place to mourn with those who loved him most. I see Fleur experiencing the same awkwardness; she had never really built up too close a relationship with the family (apart from Bill, obviously) what with Molly and Ginny's general disapproval of her. Sidling up to her, she raises an eyebrow at me.

"Nice shirt." She says humorously.

I put on a haughty expression. "I think you'll find that I'm trying to improve wizarding-centaur relations."

"By wearing a shirt that says 'WORLD'S BEST CENTAUR'?" She laughs. "Forgive me, but I think that the centaurs will, uh, appreciate your efforts more if you give zhis title to a centaur rather zhan yourself."

Credit to Fleur, her English accent and sense of humour have both improved immeasurably. I still remember the days of the tournament when I would have preferred to spend time with Professor Binns and his goblin uprisings than with her. But since then, she has become somewhat less egotistical and now I don't actually mind spending time with her every so often, though we still have little that we can talk about.

"It was the centaurs themselves who bestowed this title on me." I deadpan. "This shirt is their greatest honour."

_That makes her laugh. Merlin, she's sexy when she laughs._

Just as I'm about to deliver an exceptional, if I do say so myself, quip about my pink trousers, I am whisked away by Kingsley for a meeting in Dumbledore's Office. Looks like my part in this struggle isn't over just yet.

"I expect you have a lot of questions, Mister Potter." McGonagall says as she sits us down in her new office.

I answer: "One or two, yeah."

This meeting is for the eyes of only myself, the new Minister for Magic and the new headmistress. Pretty exclusive club, right?

My old transfiguration professor leans forward in her new grand chair. She is well suited to it, in my opinion. Behind her, Dumbledore is snoozing softly in his painting. "I first of all want to offer my gratitude on behalf of the entire school. Undoubtedly, by defeating him you saved us all."

"I concur with that." Kingsley booms from next to me.

"My pleasure." I say shortly. To be honest, I'm too tired to argue with them about who truly deserves the praise. "Next question?"

I don't like being in this office; it brings back painful memories. As much as I truly believe that McGonagall will make an exceptional headmistress, it pains me to see anyone other than Albus Dumbledore sitting in the head's chair. And will I ever get past the habit of calling this room 'Dumbledore's Office'?

She looks surprised at the shortness of my reply, but continues nonetheless. "I just want to say that you will always be welcome within these walls, whether as a student, resident or teacher."

"Or maybe even headteacher?" I joke.

McGonagall gives me that familiar strict stare which I'll always wither under. To be fair, she's only been in the job for a day, so I can forgive her for not looking for successors just yet. Maybe I'll try again in a few years.

"Do you think the school will be ready for next year?" I change the subject.

"I'll make sure of it." She growls. "I'm going to give the teachers a week off to recover and mourn, but then they've all agreed to return to fix everything up."

"If you ever need an extra wand around, I'll clear my schedule." I offer.

Kingsley enters the conversation. "Speaking of your schedule, I may need to borrow you for a few public appearances over the next months, Harry."

I let out a deep sigh. It seems as though my hopes of fading into a peaceful, private life are going to have to wait for a short while.

"How many are you thinking?" I ask, supposing that I can drag myself out for a few photo shoots ever so often.

"Three of four times a week?" Kingsley suggests. "We're thinking that in return we can let you be an auror without having to do the normal five year training. If anyone deserves it, you do. You could be head of the auror department by twenty five and, who knows, even Minister for Magic by thirty five."

"Fuck that!" I explode, surprising myself as much as the other two. "Even Fudge only dragged me out for publicity a few times a year. And fuck joining the Ministry! I'm not getting myself entangled in that mess of corruption and weakness."

"People need to see you working with the Ministry."

McGonagall butts in. "Kingsley is right, Mister Potter. You may not like the Ministry, but we need it nonetheless."

Why am I so angry? It's a pretty reasonable request!

I hold my head in stress. Not feeling like myself is pretty uncomfortable.

"Let me consider it, okay?" I reason once I've calmed down.

"Are you okay, Harry?" McGonagall asks, momentarily dropping her stern façade to reveal the concerned motherly figure that I know her to be deep down.

I nod. "Yeah, fine. Absolutely fine."

Neither Kingsley nor McGonagall look convinced.

"Look, can I speak to Professor Dumbledore for a second? There are a few things I need to wrap up." I request.

The headmistress examines me for a few seconds, clearly unhappy that there are things I am keeping secret from her, but eventually lets up, leading Kingsley out of the office.

"Come and find me again later, Mister Potter." She says as she leaves. "Don't think for one second that I'm finished with you yet."

"You seek my counsel, Harry?" The painting of Dumbledore asks once we're in private.

I nod slowly. "If you don't mind, professor?"

"Of course not, my boy!" He says with remarkable cheer. "Ask away, ask away."

Clearly, even dead, Albus Dumbledore relishes a good puzzle.

"Ever since I woke up today, I've felt strange. It's difficult to explain, but I feel like I'm a different person. It might be just a temporary thing, or it might just be because I don't have the pressure of Voldemort in my life, but a hunch says its different. I can't really explain why."

"In what ways do you feel different?"

"Well as I said, it's difficult to explain. But for example, I feel confident, I feel powerful, even arrogant. And definitely I feel less self-conscious. There have been a few occasions today when I've just said exactly what I feel, when in the past I've always kept my opinions to myself."

"Like your outburst a couple of minutes ago?" Dumbledore asks, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"Exactly."

"All of those could easily be attributed to the fact that you have just defeated Voldemort, Harry. I'm sure that once you get used to the feeling of being safe, you'll return to normal."

I'm already shaking my head. "It's not like that, sir. I can tell. As today as gone on, I've felt less and less like myself. I feel as though my entire personality is changing."

The former headteacher smiles, "Well, Harry. There's an easy way to find out."

He's got that expression on, the really annoying one that says "We both know what I'm talking about, here" even though I have no idea.

"Summon your patronus, Harry." He tells me.

Of course! Patronuses reflect a person's character in animal form, so if my character has truly changed then my patronus will have done so accordingly.

Drawing my newly fixed wand from my pocket, I rotate my wrist in a cyclical counter-clockwise motion and mutter the incantation, setting my thoughts on my only enjoyable moment of the day so far: my short conversation with Fleur.

Instantly, the familiar silver wisps shoot from the end of my wand but they do not form a stag. They form a phoenix. It is about the size of an average swan, but thinner and doubly as majestic. Seriously, however impressive my stag had been, this phoenix just took my breath away.

Dumbledore gasps and smiles. "Amazing, absolutely amazing. Harry, I think that you are absolutely right."

I too am in a state of disbelief; a phoenix is as rare a patronus as you can have. I guess it explains my new fiery temperament. While we both think in silence, my beautiful phoenix flies gently around my head.

"What determines character, sir?" I ask. The tiniest glint of an idea has formed in my head.

"Why, the soul, dear boy." He explains.

I'd thought as much. My idea was, perhaps, coming together. "So could it be linked to the fact that I had Voldemort's soul in me, but now I don't?"

Dumbledore smiles at me. "A brilliant thought process, Harry! Yes, a most intriguing question. I wonder if..."

He trails off, annoying me somewhat. "You wonder what?"

"This is a most difficult question, Harry." The painting explains with a small smile. "The soul is a most complex thing. Wizards and witches have studied it for centuries, yet we still have very limited understanding of it. I'm afraid that at this point, I can only hazard a guess as to why you are experiencing what you are."

"Go on," I say eagerly.

The elderly professor sighs. "This is just an educated guess, Harry, but I think it is possible that Voldemort's soul did more than just attach itself to your body. It attached itself to your soul. When Voldemort willingly destroyed the part of himself inside you, your soul changed because it was no longer attached to his."

I nod.

"This leads me to believe that your soul has fixed itself from where Voldemort's soul was torn from it."

"So because it has had to fix itself, my character has changed with it?" I check.

Dumbledore nods. "If my theory is correct, then yes. You should not worry, Harry. Having a phoenix patronus is a very good sign. Your character will be adjusted, but you'll still be you. There may be a few alterations that you should be aware of, however."

I gesture for him to continue.

He sighs, "Phoenixes are the noblest creatures in the animal kingdom, but don't think that they are perfect. Those of us lucky enough to have phoenix patronuses tend to pick up some of their less favourable traits. Phoenixes can be proud creatures because of their brilliant power. I am embarrassed to admit that I myself was exceptionally arrogant in my younger years; please don't fall into the same trap as I did."

_Okay, I'm sure I can deal with a little possible arrogance. Shouldn't be too much a problem, right?_

"Another intriguing characteristic of the phoenix is that it is generally a very solitary creature. Most will spend their entire lives alone. Others find a single person who they are loyal and trusting to, like Fawkes with myself. For all the wonderful aspects of a phoenix, they can be rather unpleasant to people other than the one they've bonded to. I for one feel fortunate that I was never on the receiving end of one of Fawkes' tantrums."

"So you think that might happen to me? I'll become solitary?"

Dumbledore considers this for a second. "I think so, yes. But remember: you will most likely form a very close relationship with one person, as Fawkes did with me."

Despite Dumbledore's warnings of loneliness pride, I can feel myself relaxing. I mean, surely I'll only be a better person without a bit of Voldemort affecting my character? Of course, there'll be a few things that'll need getting used to. For example, it appears that my new self isn't attracted to Ginny. Definitely not the end of the world. And the fact that I now feel more magical than I ever have done before? That's certainly not the end of the world either.

After all, we wouldn't want my life getting boring now Voldemort's gone, would we?

**What did you think? I hope all of the troubles that Harry had been feeling with his character made sense in the end when Dumbledore talks about the characteristics of a phoenix. More important than that, though, I just hope you enjoyed reading it.**

**Thanks very much, and reviews are appreciated!**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

After leaving Dumbledore's Office, it's immediately time to deal with the press. I stand with Kingsley by my side in what's left of the courtyard. This used to be one of Hogwarts' social hubs; students from all houses would come here to relax, talk, study and practice spells. It had been a impressive and reassuring first impression to all those apprehensive wizards and witches starting their first year, because to enter the castle, one normally had to walk through it and admire the grand pillars of stone which make up its perimeter.

The courtyard's beauty always had lain in its simplicity because it had been entirely clear but for a small, modest fountain in its centre. I know that I'm getting stupidly emotional but I still remember to this day, almost seven years after first walking through it, seeing it as a scared first year and soon being confident that my life at Hogwarts would be a good one.

Well, the fountain is now just a hole in the ground. A giant probably thought it was a person and took a swing at it; as a race, they aren't known for their intelligence or knowledge of quaint garden décor. The massive stone columns around the courtyard's edge haven't fared well either: the few which remain standing are lonely and still pretty worse for wear. The ceiling that they had been holding up is now, of course, just a part of the ground.

So you can see why, standing in this derelict, I'm having a hard time trying to smile under the incessant, judgemental flashes and glares of the cameras. Seriously, how am I expected to look my best when there's a dead spider the size of Umbridge's ego about ten metres to my right? Hopefully that, at least, has been cropped out of the picture. The whole experience makes me feel uncomfortably as though I'm under examination. Merlin, I hate journalists. I know for a fact that at least half of the assembled group were cozying up with the Death Eaters up until about... twenty four hours ago? How a day can change one's perspective, hey?

Kingsley grasps my shoulders tightly for the cameras. He wears a victorious but solemn expression on his face, expertly playing the media to appear the strong and profound leader. Though I can't see what I myself look like, I suspect that I look every bit as fucked up as I feel, just with a clearly fabricated smile plastered on my face. Sort of like one of those dogs they dress up and put in calendars; no matter how much they're prepared for the cameras, they still look ridiculous. Maybe that's not the best analogy ever, but you get my point: I never was the most photogenic guy. I try my best, though, for Kingsley's sake. Yeah, I don't like the fact that he wants me to play the poster boy four times a week, but comparing him to Fudge, I decide that there are definitely worse candidates for the Minister of Magic position. Then again, one of Hagrid's blast-ended skrewts with a smiley face drawn on it would have been a more effectual war-time leader than Fudge, who had been about as much use as a cat flap in an elephant house.

Inevitably, we eventually have to take some questions from the pack and as the 'Chosen One', it is more than likely that I'll be on the receiving end of most of them. The good news, however, is that Kingsley has allowed me to pick the journalists I accept questions from in exchange for my being on my best behaviour.

Immediately eliminating any of the cowards who had started to advocate Voldemort at the first sniff of danger, I settle on a rather fat one who, judging by the strong aura of body-odour concealing charms around him, clearly has confidence issues.

"Mister Potter," he asks shyly. "How victorious do you actually feel right now, considering the losses each side suffered from?"

_Not a bad question, actually. Credit to the fat man._

I answer with exactly the kind of response Kingsley is looking for: "Very good question, sir. Looking around at the destruction of this beautiful castle and the deaths of so many of my friends, it is difficult not to question our victory. But I am comforted by the fact that now I won't lose anyone else to Voldemort, and am confident that those we lost won't be forgotten. In fact, the Minister has just been telling me about his plans to erect a memorial to the victorious dead in the Ministry atrium."

Lies are flowing easily from my mouth: of course, no such discussion has taken place but I figure that not only will it help Kingsley's image, it will also ensure that such a memorial is put up. Hell, maybe I should be Minister for Magic!

Kingsley nods at me in approval before saying, "Next question, please."

I select a relatively inoffensive looking guy from an independent newspaper, who asks about what I was doing instead of attending Hogwarts this year.

"I'm afraid that I can't divulge that at this moment," I evade expertly. "Classified information."

This is, not to put too fine a point on it, total bullshit, but I really can't be bothered explaining the whole horcrux situation for now. A story for another day, perhaps.

A few more questions about Voldemort, my relationship with Kingsley and the war in general come and go and eventually, after I resort to accepting a question from Teen Witch Weekly about my relationship status, Kingsley insists that I take at least one question from the Daily Prophet, considering it is the wizarding world's biggest paper. Of course it was also Voldemort's propaganda machine during the war, but it seems Kingsley's ready to iron over that.

"Go on then." I groan and point to a Prophet representative. "Make it quick."

"How do you feel now that Voldemort is gone, considering how much of a part he's played in your life."

I stare at the journalist in disbelief. "Awful, yeah. I don't know how I'm coping. What a shitty question!"

My voice drips with sarcasm as potent as basilisk venom. With my new fiery phoenix personality, apparently I have no time for idiots. Kingsley cautions me, but to be fair, it is the first time I've misbehaved in the entire session. A few more questions come and go before Kingsley ends proceedings with a last statement.

"In recognition of young Harry's achievements in defeating the Dark Lord and ending this war, the Wizengamot has unanimously agreed to award him an Order of Merlin First Class. He will become the youngest ever recipient of this award." Kingsley says in that deep, powerful voice. "I should add that other names are currently under consideration as well."

I get a short round of applause while I stand there and pretend to be awed by the honour of receiving such a prestigious award, trying not to laugh at the memory of Sirius chucking his family's old Order of Merlin in the bin. I imagine that mine will probably meet the same fate. Of course, I've known for a long time now that they were going to try and pin some kind of medal on me at some point.

When I re-enter the Great Hall I am met by an unpleasant sight. No, actually make that two unpleasant sites: firstly, Ron and Hermione have moved down from the Common Room but are still kissing (if you can actually call it that) - but far more worrying is the fact that Ginny appears to be in deep conversation with Rita Skeeter. Don't get me wrong, Ginny's a smart girl who hates Skeeter as much as anyone, but I have a sneaky suspicion that she's going to want to broadcast her new 'relationship' with me as far and wide as possible. It's her way of marking her property.

Is that what I am now? Her property?

Damn! She's noticed me! Pretending not to notice her gesturing for me to come over, I hastily turn on my heel and make my exit. As I look behind me to see if she's following me, I walk straight into someone.

"Oh, sorry." I say, turning around to see who I've hit. I can sense who it is halfway through my pivot: only one person I know carries such a distinguishable aura. It's difficult to describe what it feels like, but it definitely inspires passion and lust powerful enough that without any self-control one feels inclined to jump her bones on the spot. And remember, this is what just her natural, weakest aura can cause.

It is, of course, Fleur, and her pink, very kissable lips curl angrily for a moment before suddenly turning morphing into a radiant smile. "Why are you in such a rush, 'Arry?"

_Merlin, she really is indescribably beautiful. I can barely stop myself from drooling just at the sight of her. How on earth did Old Harry manage to control himself around her for so long without having these thoughts?_

Hmm, shall I tell her the truth: that I'm fleeing from a young girl? Or shall I try to save some face?

I tell her that I'm on my way to an urgent meeting with Kingsley. She doesn't look convinced but lets the matter drop for now. An awkward silence ensues; as I said before, I have basically nothing in common with the French witch. Conversation can, therefore, be somewhat difficult.

"Sorry for bumping into you." I say weakly, immediately cringing afterwards.

"It iz okay," she laughs at my pathetic attempt to converse. "Well, I will not keep you for any longer, 'Arry. You might be late for your meeting with Kingsley."

As she walks past me, I screw my eyes up and sigh. I couldn't have come across as more pathetic if I tried. And she definitely saw right through my Kingsley lie.

My situation only worsens as I hear a high-pitched call from behind me. "Harry?"

Without a doubt, that is the voice of Ginny Weasley. Damn! I thought I'd lost her. Plastering a smile on my face, I turn to face her, already trying to think of some excuse for running off at the first sight of her.

"Oh, hi Ginny!" I enthuse. "Where have you been?"

She approaches me. Behind her, Fleur is raising her eyebrows at me; clearly she has put the pieces together. 'Kingsley?' she mouths with a cheeky smile before walking back towards the Great Hall.

"Harry?" Ginny's voice snaps my eyes from the sight of Fleur's swaying hips. "Are you listening to me?"

I nod. "Of course! You have my undivided attention."

Merlin, though, how can anyone naturally walk with such elegance and grace? It is distinctly cat-like in its assurance, balance and quiet. No, to call it a 'walk' is a gross understatement. Fleur does not walk, she glides. All of this, how am I only noticing it now? I mean, I've known her ever since my fourth year... those days feel as though they were lifetime ago.

"So?" Ginny asks expectantly, once again pulling me unceremoniously out of my daydream. "What do you think?"

Shit, this time I really do have no idea what she's asking me about. "I agree entirely," I bluff.

"Great! Thanks, Harry!" She beams. Dropping a quick kiss on my lips, she bounces off before I can find out what on earth I've just agreed to. Merlin, what if she asked me to marry her? Just the thought makes me grimace all the way back into the Great Hall.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of activity; being the Chosen One and Vanquisher of the Dark Lord is pretty hard work. I reject nine total offers from journalists hoping to write my official biography, I pose for photographs with friends and strangers alike, I accept various awards for my 'bravery and courage' and most importantly, I generally try to avoid Ginny. By the time I get a chance to talk to Ron and Hermione, it's evening already. For what must be the first time today, they're not kissing. I guess they've just decided to take a break to gather some well-needed oxygen.

"I can't believe you're getting an Order of Merlin," Ron complains through a mouthful of cream bun. "They haven't offered me or Hermione so much as a gold sticker, and you get a bloody Order of Merlin!"

I raise my eyebrows at him. "You haven't exactly given them a chance, have you?"

"Whadda you mean?" He asks, proudly showing the contents of his mouth as he speaks. How someone as utterly brilliant as Hermione can kiss this guy, I'll never know.

I explain, "Well, you've been attached to Hermione's face all day."

The witch in question blushes, but I can tell she's happy. Good for her. I still think she can do better than Ron, though. She catches my gaze for a second and we share an intimate smile, which relieves me. What with her new relationship with Ron and my new self, it seems like we're destined to drift apart. Believe me, I would do anything to stop that from happening. We've become so closely entwined over the last year and to see that bond unravel would break my heart.

But in my heart I know that things are changing; I haven't even told them about my new patronus yet. I've always shared all of my important news with the two of them, ever since my first year here. It's as Dumbledore said: a phoenix is a solitary creature. The unravelling process, so to speak, is already in motion and I know that I'll have to act fast if I want to retain my old friendships.

"So what are you guys going to do now?" I ask, though only vaguely interested.

Hermione says, "Kingsley's offered me a pretty high ranking job in the Ministry, but I'm not going to start for a few months..."

Ron continues, "...In the mean time, we're going to stay with Mum, until we can afford our own place.

Merlin, twenty four hours into their relationship and they're already finishing each other's sentences.

"Sounds good." I say unenthusiastically. In truth, I'm disappointed that Hermione's joining the Ministry. It's an irreparably corrupt system, even with good people like her and Kingsley trying to lead it and if the two of them aren't careful, they'll become as bad as the rest of them.

"What about you, mate?" Ron asks. "What's the plan for the Chosen One ?"

"Not much," I lie. "Kingsley wants me out on the streets with him for the cameras as much as possible, and I've offered McGonagall my help with fixing up the castle."

I'm doing it again, not telling the two of them about the real plan that I'm forming. Dumbledore was certainly correct about the secrecy of the phoenix...

"Don't envy you, mate." He says pityingly.

Though I don't say so, I don't envy him either. Already I can picture the day when Hermione decides to introduce him to her parents. As pretty well-off dentists, I can't imagine that they'll be too impressed with his rather lax views on personal hygiene. Or his table manners, for that matter; seriously, Ron could make a troll look like a perfect gentleman if they sat side by side at the dinner table. The image puts a well-needed smile on my face.

"What are you smiling at?" Hermione is looking at me oddly.

"Oh, just you guys. You're a great couple." Another lie. They're coming easily now.

They smile and start kissing again.

Great.

For the next couple of minutes I sit awkwardly next to the two of them, wondering if it might be better if I just walk off. The problem is that I don't really have anywhere to walk off to. In everything that's happened today I've failed to make any arrangements as to where I'll be staying for the coming days. Option one is the Burrow, but I reckon that puts me in too close a proximity to Ginny. She might get the wrong idea. Option two is here, in Hogwarts. But to be honest, I don't really fancy sleeping in the wreckage of a castle which smells pretty strongly of decomposing giant and is where a whole lot of my friends died. Option three is Grimmauld Place, and I won't even bother listing what's wrong with that place or I'll be in danger of losing my voice.

Eventually, the rest of the Weasley contingent makes their way towards us, finally ready to return to the Burrow. George doesn't even bother to crack a joke about the two lovebirds next to me, which is as definite a sign as any that he's feeling pretty heartbroken. Ginny comes and latches herself onto my arm, again. Seriously, right now she's clingier than poor old Dobby used to be, but a great deal less useful.

"Mum's said that you can share my room if we promise to behave," She says rather happily.

"Woah, since when was I coming to stay at yours?" I panic. Seriously, I'd rather sleep in Kreacher's den next to that weird shrine for Bellatrix Lestrange than in Ginny Weasley's room.

The red-haired girl furrows her eyebrows. "Remember? You said you would earlier!"

When did I agree to that? Merlin, I must have been either under the imperius curse (Ginny's so clingy right now that I wouldn't even put it past her...) or extremely drunk to agree to something so stupid.

"Perhaps it was when you were on your way to that meeting with Kingsley?" Fleur hints from somewhere behind the rest of the Weasleys. Though I can't see her, I can tell from her tone that she has a smile on her face.

She's probably right, though. Damn, how could I have been so stupid? Well, at least Kreacher will get to have his den under the pipes to himself.

Fleur squeezes through to the front before continuing, "But wait, 'Arry. Did Kingsley not say that 'e wants you to stay at Shell Cottage until 'e has found the remaining Death Eaters?"

We both know that Kingsley's said no such thing, but Fleur is throwing me a life line, so who am I to argue? Credit to her, she sounds so convincing that even I half believe her. She delivers the line with such complete sincerity, and such a look of absolute innocence on her face, that it is almost impossible not to believe her.

"Yeah, that's right." I agree, wondering why she has decided to help me out. Clearly she knows that I'm trying to escape from Ginny's attempts to manacle herself to me, but I still can't see what's in it for her. Whatever her motives, I owe her big time.

"Don't be silly, Fleur." Molly condescends. "It'll be much safer for Harry at the Burrow."

I argue, "As much as it pains me to say so, Mrs Weasley, I think I'd better do what Kingsley says for now. I'm sure he has his reasons."

"Well." The Weasley matriach humphs. "I'll be having words with him about it."

Not a problem. If I can talk to him before she does, I'll just make him play along in exchange for my helping him.

"Good idea," I say, as if I really want to stay at the Burrow. "Hopefully it'll only be for a few days. Sorry, Ginny."

She ignores me, too busy glaring at the French witch who's thwarted her plans. Fleur still wears that expression of purest innocence.

Over the next few minutes, the Weasleys apparate away, leaving me alone with Bill and Fleur.

"Well, Harry." Bill smiles. "Merlin knows why Kingsley thinks this is the best option, but you'll always be welcome at Shell Cottage."

"Cheers, Bill. I'll try not to get in your way."

Right now, I must be emanating joy at my lucky escape. It must show because Bill gives me an odd look; perhaps he thinks that I'm particularly happy about staying at the Cottage, or alternatively he thinks I've just gone a bit strange.

"Well, we'll be off now, I think." Bill says, looking at his aged watch. "Come and join us whenever you feel like it."

He takes his wife's hand; with a flash, a crack and a subtle wink from Fleur, they disapparate back to their home by the sea and for the first time ever, with all of my friends either dead or gone, I feel truly alone at Hogwarts.

**I don't do notes on chapters very often but I'd just like to say: wow, I couldn't believe the response that I got after the last chapter. It was more than I'd ever hoped for, and for that I am grateful. I'll try to make it up to you by posting at least once a week.**

**Thanks, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter.**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

I arrive at Shell Cottage about three hours after Fleur and Bill, by which time thick night has descended upon the outskirts of Tinworth. Through the darkness, I can just about make out the outline of the small cottage, which stands defiant and alone on the cliff face, staring out into the the vast expanse of water which sparkles under the dim light of the moon. The sound of waves crashing against the the beach is a constant background melody, quiet enough to be inoffensive yet still audible enough to soothe any negativity.

The smell of Fleur's delicious cooking wafts through the cottage's open, welcoming door and mixes with the prominent scents of sea lavender and salt in the clear air. My stomach rumbles pointedly, reminding me that I haven't eaten anything substantial all day. Right now, I'd hungry enough that I'd eat one of Hagrid's rock cakes if it materialised in front of me. Believe me, that's not something that you'll hear me say very often.

The last few hours had been more productive than the whole rest of the day beforehand. In the near solitude of the castle's interior, I'd surprised even myself by locking myself in the library and scouring the place for interesting books. Ever since killing Voldemort, I've had an absolute craving for knowledge and new magic, which is good for my academic studies but bad for poor Kreacher's back- he volunteered to heave the books which had caught my interest to my room here. Since McGonagall is not going to start fixing up the castle for another week, I've decided to treat myself to a week in my own company, where I plan to extract every bit of useful information from the small library Kreacher's transported back to my room. No Voldemort, no Ron or Hermione, no journalists: just me.

I approach the wonky, shell covered building, attracted to the luscious odour of Fleur's cooking, and walk through the open doorway. Clearing my throat, I attempt to get the witch's attention.

It takes a while for her to hear me over the sound of some French opera that she's listening and humming along to.

"Oh, good evening, 'Arry." She says, finally noticing my presence at the billionth time of me asking. "I was wondering when you would arrive."

Casually, she dips a spoon into her cooking pot and takes a sip of her stew while I stand in the doorway trying not to drool at the sight of her tongue flicking around and over the small bit of metal cutlery. I wonder, is she trying to be provocative or is it possible that she is just so naturally sexy in everything she does? And is this a recent development for her? I mean, I swear I've never seen her like this in the past...

I break the silence: "What room am I going to be staying in?"

She removes the spoon from her mouth with a loud pop. "Do you remember where Mister Ollivander stayed when you were 'ere last?"

The weird thing is that only about a week has passed since I was camping out here after the events at Malfoy Manor, but it feels like months. How could so much have possibly happened in the course of just a few days?

I nod my head and thank her, moving in the direction of the stairs. By this point, I just want to get as far away from her and her spoon as possible.

"Your 'ouse elf 'as already been," she calls after me. The distaste for my elf in her voice is tangible; Kreacher certainly is an acquired taste. "Should I ask why you need all those books?"

Hesitating for a second, I reply flippantly, "Kreacher is trying to fulfil his lifelong ambition of starting a book club. I'm sure you'll be welcome to join."

In an attempt to stop her from questioning me further, I continue up the stairs but she is hot on my tail.

"I do not like secrets in my 'ouse, 'Arry." She says sternly. "Do not make me regret saving you from Ginny."

Merlin, she looks more disgusted when talking about Ginny than she did mentioning Kreacher. Considering Kreacher is an ugly, ancient, rude and generally unpleasant elf who smells worse than Hagrid's allotment, Fleur must really, really hate Ginny. I think you could expand on this a bit from Harry's point of view, since his distaste with his former girlfriend is still rather unfamiliar to him, judging from the other chapters.

I look her straight in the eyes for a second, which is dangerous in itself. Her eyes are almost hypnotising, they are so deep in colour. They eptimose temptation; momentarily, I am very nearly allured into telling her the real purpose of all those books and even my new phoenix patronus, which is right now my most closely guarded secret. There's something about Fleur that I find trustworthy, which I guess is why I have such an urge to tell her the thing that I have not entrusted to even a single living soul.

"I'm sorry," I say, and I mean it. Really, I do want to tell her. "It's just something that I've got to do."

She looks more disappointed than angry. "Fine. Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes."

My heart sinks at her abrupt withdrawal from the conversation. She's clearly upset that I won't confide in her and to be fair, it's pretty unfair of me considering she's invited me into her home and saved me from my psychotic girlfriend in the process.

My room looks nicer than it was about a week ago when Ollivander was sleeping here. The bed covers have been changed to more colourful alternatives, an ornate wooden desk has been moved into the corner, and a large vase of flowers of assorted colours stands on the windowsill. All of my clothes have been folded and put away neatly in the wardrobe, and the rest of the possessions that Kreacher has brought have been stored tidily in various places. My heart sinks at the fact that it was probably Fleur who went to all of this effort, judging by the delicacy of the room's presentation. The list of things that I owe Fleur for grows even longer.

I gasp as I see my beloved broomstick carefully propped up on the desk. I haven't ridden it for more than twelve months, Merlin, I'm not even sure if I'll be able to fly it any more. But I'm sure of one thing: I long to be in the air again. Picking up the long branch of wood, I run my fingers down it, caressing it. Twelve months of inactivity have dulled its varnish somewhat, but it is still as smooth as I remember it. As long as it still functions, I don't really care what it looks like.

"Fleur!" I shout downstairs. "How long 'til tea?"

She replies, "Not long. Can you set zhe table?"

Sighing, I accept. Housework certainly wasn't something that I missed during my year out. Looks like my return to the sky will have to be put on hold for another hour or so. Trying to hide my disappointment, I descend to the kitchen with a smile on my face; Fleur's already in a bad mood with me and there's no point in annoying her further.

"Where do you keep your plates?" I ask politely.

She points to a cupboard by the oven without saying a single word. Clearly she's more annoyed with me than I thought, and all because I refused to tell her what I was researching with the books?

Bending down to the cupboard's level, I sneak a glance at the French witch's half-bare legs. They look as smooth as the handle of my Firebolt, with shapely muscle definition and luscious pale pink colouring. Quickly, I divert my gaze back to the boring old dishes before I incur any of her reputed wrath.

As I begin to set the three plates out onto the table, Fleur looks at me with an expression of supreme condescension.

"What are you doing, 'Arry?" She asks.

I reply flatly, "Setting the table as your majesty ordered."

So much for staying in her good books!

"You 'ave to clear zhe table before you can set it. Or did you not know this?"

The table is completely clear but for a newspaper, a mug and two apples. I'm sure that this is her way of paying me back for being secretive; she's trying to annoy me, and she's succeeding.

I reply irritably, "I know how to set the table, Fleur."

Pulling out my wand, I begin to levitate items back into various cupboards before casting a cleaning charm on the table cloth.

"'Urry up." Fleur orders from beside me. "Zhe food is ready."

I'm about to snap back a retort when there's a loud crack directly outside the door.

Fleur says, "Ah, Bill is 'ome right on time."

The elegant witch removes her dish of stew from the oven before sauntering over to the entrance to welcome her husband home with a kiss. Their lips lock briefly but intimately, a succinct show of passion. Ron and Hermione could sure learn a thing or two from them.

"Evening, Harry. Everything okay?" The eldest Weasley child says once they separate. Fleur returns to put the finishing touches on her stew, pointedly avoiding eye contact with me as she passes.

Laughing, I reply: "Not bad, Bill. Your wife is a harsh taskmaster, though." That'll annoy her.

As I finish putting the plates and cutlery out, Fleur levitates the dish of hot stew onto the table along with various sides of vegetables and bread.

"I told 'im to set the table." Fleur explains. "'e could not handle it."

Bill laughs as the three of us sit down, alleviating some of the tension. Maybe this evening won't be so awkward after all.

Fleur's stew turns out be a big success. It's basically a big, hearty stew with large chunks of beef which melt right in the mouth and lots of crunchy onion, mixed in copious red wine. It's a true treat to my taste buds. Opposite me, there is also a treat to my eyes. Because of my position it is quite easy to sneak glances at the French beauty which, believe me, I take full advantage of.

She's wearing her glossy silver hair in a tight pony tail for the occasion. I must say that I prefer it loose, free and cascading down her shoulders, but needless to say she still looks absolutely stunning. Does she have a single freckle? A single spot? Any blemish at all on the pale perfection of her skin? It doesn't look like it from my perspective. Her lips are pink, full and slightly upturned in a demure smile; it's a beautiful mouth whose upper lip occasionally stiffens into something almost like a pout.

I congratulate Fleur for what must be the fourth or fifth time. "This is the nicest meal I've had in a long time."

"But maybe that is not saying much, if you 'ave been cooking for yourself in zhe last year?" She pokes fun.

At least she's joking with me now, which means the sulking period is most likely over. She crosses her legs, bringing them back to my attention. They are long, with a supple shapeliness and elegance: not the result of exercise or dieting, I think, but of breeding and youth.

Bill takes a sip of wine (Fleur has clearly managed to sophisticate him). "That's a point. Since the War's over now, can't you tell us what you, Ron and Hermione were up to last year?"

Already I am formulating some kind of excuse, and Fleur can see it. She presses her advantage.

"Don't bother, Bill." She says provocatively. "'Arry likes 'is secrets."

"Well actually," I reply, succumbing to her not-so-subtle reverse-psychology. "I think that's a great idea. It'll be useful to get it off my chest."

And so I tell the story, starting with the Basilisk and the Diary in my second year, right until the last horcrux in the Lost Diadem. I've never been much of a storyteller, and I've never particularly liked telling people about the stuff I've done, so logically this shouldn't work. But it does work. Neither of the them utter a single word as I recite my long story. They are silent as I describe our infiltration of the Ministry, they are silent as I explain how we became the first successful robbers of Gringotts, and they are silent as the grave itself when I explicate my choice to meet Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest.

"Wow, Harry." Bill gasps as I round off the story with that last battle against Voldemort. "That must have been a bit shit for you."

Fleur rolls her eyes at him. "My 'usband always 'as 'ad a way with words."

To be fair to him, though, he's pretty much hit the nail on the head, even if in a very... concise way.

"'Ow can someone split their soul into seven pieces? Merde."

As Bill answers, I zone out of the conversation. Talking about this makes me feel ill. My head throbs, my stomach throbs more; I'm going to be sick if I'm not careful.

"I'm sorry." I interrupt Bill mid-sentence. "I've got to go. I'm not feeling well, not at all. I'll get Kreacher to do the clearing up."

Assuring the two of them that I'll be fine, though not convincing them, I run to the upstairs bathroom clutching my head. Leaning on the white basin, I look at myself in the mirror ahead of me: my chest is heaving, my skin is flushed, and sweat pours down my forehead. How can Voldemort still haunt me so vividly from his grave?

It takes a while for my jacked heart rate to return to a healthy pace and by the time it has, I know what I have to do to feel better. Unlocking the bathroom door, I creep silently across the hallway. Downstairs, I can hear Fleur and Bill talking about something or other in hushed voices. Normally I'd be intrigued to find out what, but tonight I have only one objective on my mind. My door creaks unhelpfully loudly as it opens but this fortunately goes unnoticed by the couple downstairs. As I lay a hand on my broomstick again, I know that everything's going to be all right.

It's a tight fit squeezing myself and my broomstick through my room's small window, but it's still preferable than having to go downstairs and assure Bill and Fleur that I'm all right, and then persuade them to let me fly. The end of my broomstick knocks the vase of flowers from its perch but a quick Wingardium Leviosa saves it and places it back securely. And then I'm outside. I can feel the slightly coarse, sandy wind slapping against my cheeks and the cold biting my skin like tiny insects. Mounting the Firebolt I feel at home, like a king returning to his throne. This is where I belong. The wood tingles under my firm grip; I know it is raring to go, ready to burst out of its forced hibernation to accompany me on another flight. We start to ascend. All thoughts of Voldemort are already gone; it's just me, my broomstick and the journey ahead. We shoot off from the windowsill and into the heavy darkness of the night.

This is crazy! My speed is such that everything that passes by is the faintest of blurs, yet I am in total control of the broomstick. I'd forgotten that such pace even existed. Adrenaline is pumping, coursing through my veins and through my body. The sky is accepting, the sky is fair, the sky is where I belong. Midnight is approaching and I can't see two feet in front of me through the pitch black, but I know I'm over the sea. I can hear the water gently beating its way towards the shore under my feet. I descend just low enough to skim over it, sending splashes of clear water up into the heavens. Then, I incline once again, but this time I go higher. I go higher than any Quidditch hoop. I go higher than any Hogwarts tower. And I just cruise there. I empty my thoughts hundreds of feet above the great ocean until there is nothing left but calm and tranquillity. It is here that I make my plans for the future.

I don't know how long I'm up there for, but I wish it could have been longer. The only thing that brings me down to ground level is knowing that Bill and Fleur will be worried. Otherwise, I don't know how long I might have stayed there. I manage to find my way back to Shell Cottage without any light, which I can only attribute to my phoenix instincts. I guess that also explains why I crave being in the air so much now. As I land outside the front door silently, I assume that I haven't been noticed. After all, it must be one in the morning by now. I'm wrong. The moment I step from my broomstick I am met by a biting slap that could have only been delivered by one hand.

"Ow." I complain, holding my quickly reddening cheek.

A wand light flickers on before me, illuminating the furious figure of Fleur Delacour, dressed in a thick woollen dressing gown. I've never seen her so angry. Her face is red, her fists clenched, her eyes narrow.

"We. Thought. You. 'Ad. Run. Away." She screeches. In between every word adds another slap for good measure, though never as hard as that first one. Then she does the totally unexpected by pulling me into a close hug.

"Never do zhat again, 'Arry. Never." She whimpers.

I'm feeling pretty guilty now. Clearly I've made her worry, which honestly wasn't my intention.

"I just had to get away for a bit," I explain. "I didn't realise that talking about last year would be so hard. I'm sorry. Where's Bill?"

Fleur replies, "In bed. It is three in zhe morning, after all!"

"Three?" I gasp. Merlin, I thought I'd only been gone for half an hour.

Finally releasing me from the embrace, she forces me indoors. "You are freezing. I will make you a 'ot chocolate."

Despite several attempts to persuade her otherwise, she does force a hot chocolate into my cold hands and watches sternly as I drink it down.

"Are you sure you're okay?" She asks when I'm nearly done.

"Brilliant," I reply honestly. "I feel better than I have done in as long as I can remember."

She yawns, adding to my guilt. She should be tucked up nice and warm by her husband's side right now, not making me hot chocolate. Before I can tell her so, she starts another line of enquiry.

"I am worried about you," she says frankly.

"How do you mean?"

"You are not 'onest when you talk to me. And you are more, uh, sarcastic zhan I remember. Sometimes I do not recognise you."

Damn, she's noticed.

She stares me straight in the eyes confrontationally. He entire air of innocent respectability has gone, replaced with an unrepentant wildness. "I want to know what you are up to. I want to know what you are trying to learn from all zhose books. If I do not know what you are doing, I do not know zhat you are safe. And if I cannot keep you safe, I cannot keep you in my 'ouse."

Hmm, her accent gets worse when she's upset. Interesting...

"I am up to nothing. If you think something's different, it's probably just because Voldemort isn't around any more. And if you really want to know what I'm doing with those books, I'm simply catching up the work I missed last year. Happy now?"

Fleur stands up. "You're lying to me. I know when people are lying."

Shit, she can read me like a book! And I thought I'd developed into quite a good liar.

I try to salvage the situation. "I'm not lying, Fleur. I promise."

It's too late. "First thing tomorrow morning I am going to zhe Burrow to arrange for you to stay zhere. I cannot 'ave a liar in my 'ouse."

I'd better start browsing the housing market because there's no way I'm staying on that pig farm with Ginny.

Fleur turns around as she walks to her bedroom, delivering one last riposte. "I tried to keep Ginny away from you because I thought you were too good for 'er. Clearly I was wrong."

With that, she strides back to her bedroom. She doesn't look back.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**Another rare note from me: firstly, I'd like to apologise for leaving a beta note in the last chapter. I'm sorting that out as we speak. Secondly, I'd just like to pre-empt you for a feature of this chapter. Mrs Weasley does not come out of it very well, and I'd just like to point out that this is ONLY because she is full of grief. I do actually really like her as a character, and I believe that one of the most important parts of her personality is her deep love for her children, so I think it natural that she behaves in the way she does in this chapter. But I assure you, this will not be a regular feature of the story. Thanks a lot, and enjoy the chapter.**

As my eyes follow Fleur storming deliciously upstairs to her room (yes, I know it's inappropriate to be admiring her body when she's so angry at me) it does occur to me that I should probably go to bed and get some rest. After all, the next few weeks are going to be maybe the busiest (and most tedious!) of my life. There will be funerals, interviews, photo shoots, walkabouts, repairing Hogwarts and maybe most importantly, thinking about what I want to do next. After all, with a bank vault full of gold and a whole life ahead of me, I need to be a man with a plan.

But I don't sleep, nor do I rest; I'm absolutely teeming with an enthusiasm to discover new magic and become a more powerful wizard. I've developed an absolutely insatiable _lust _for knowledge. It's like a spark is fizzing through my bloodstream that keeps my eyes firmly open and my brain firmly functioning. There are no prizes for guessing why I've suddenly become Hermione's twin brother: clearly this is a characteristic of the phoenix. I mean, look at Dumbledore: even in the last of his one hundred and fifteen years he was trying to better himself magically, and succeeding.

So instead of tucking myself up into the warmth of my bed, I illuminate my room and start to rummage through the piles of books that Kreacher has brought me from Hogwarts. There's one I'm looking for specifically: _A Definitive Guide to the Animagus. _I want to follow in the footsteps of my dad and his friends, bounding free and unrestricted through the world in animal form, never being recognised by a nosy reporter or an annoying fan. And if my animagus form is the same as my new patronus form... well, the possibilities will be literally endless.

The book is old but looks relatively unused. Most witches and wizards do not even seek to become animagi because they know of the extreme difficulty and danger involved with the process, so I guess the book has hardly been a massive hit. The cover is a tattered dark brown with faded gold lettering spelling out its title, and is held closed by a thin red ribbon. I take extreme care in opening it up; this book is an artifact, the only one of its kind in the Hogwarts library, and probably one of few left in the country outside the Ministry's control. The first page merely restates the title and I am about to flick past it when I notice some familiar graffiti in the bottom right corner:

_Prongs, Padfoot, Moony and Wormtail. 1972-'75._

Each name is written in its owner's distinctive handwriting: my dad's is large and bold, Sirius' is scruffy and barely legible, Professor Lupin's is inoffensive and shy, Pettigrew's is small and slanted. To think that their own hands, as only second years, wrote the lettering before my eyes makes me smile. Clearly I'm not the first person to turn to this book seeking to become an illegal animagus.

So, I spend the rest of the night reading. The book isn't long and has very little content about the the actual process of becoming an animagus. After all, the Ministry doesn't allow this most difficult of processes to be common knowledge or else illegal animagi would be springing up everywhere. But if my dad and his friends (even Pettigrew!) managed to start this procedure, using just this book for guidance, in only their second year, I guess I have a shot too.

The night brings few results, but I do manage to finish the book and spend some time trying to make some progress on the transformation. When a dainty knock comes on my door, I am pleasantly surprised. Is it really morning already?

Fleur enters. She must be fresh from the shower because her hair is wet and stringy, yet somehow she still emanates a sexiness that makes me want to drop down on my knees and worship her.

_Stop thinking about Fleur Delacour having a shower, Harry!_

She looks distinctly unhappy; her eyes are fluttering open and closed in sheer exhaustion while her pretty lips are turned down in a tiny frown. Under her eyes are the first blemishes, however slight, to her skin that I have ever seen: dark bags of tiredness. From this I can deduce two things: firstly, she's still in a bad mood (my fault) and secondly, she didn't have the best night's sleep ever (also my fault).

I guess she makes the same evaluation about me, as she asks: "You haven't slept, have you?"

Her vibrant, wide-set eyes glance anywhere in the room but in my direction, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge me. Fleur's a strong woman with deep convictions, which often surprises people. On the surface she seems to be a typical, shallow glamour girl, like those women who carry a small mirror in every available pocket of their massive fur jackets to ensure that they're always looking perfect. Fleur, though, has an unbreakable self-assurance that is, now, just short of arrogance. She'd look mouth-watering wearing a bag of potatoes, and she knows it. And she holds strong beliefs about how human beings should treat each other, which include honesty and companionship as important values. That's probably why she's so knacked off that I'm hiding stuff from her.

"No." I won't disrespect her further by lying again.

She makes no complaint, presumably too tired. "I've brought you the post."

Throwing a pile of newspapers and letters down at my feet, she saunters towards the open window. Once again I am struck by the manner in which she walks. Her feet touch the ground, or at least they appear to, yet they make absolutely no sound, as though she is floating on a cloud. I've never seen anything like it, truly. Daintily, she examines the flowers still sitting on the windowsill, admiring her handiwork. I can't blame her for that: the complex anti-ageing charm that she's clearly put on them has kept them looking colourful and soft. Believe me, that's not an easy spell.

Eventually, her pointed silence breaks me and I give her what she wants. Fleur has an amazing ability to make even the most steadfast and stubborn people (I include myself in this category) tell her whatever she wants. A flutter of her long, dark eyelashes and a sad smile stretching right to those colourful eyes, and suddenly you can't help but feel overwhelmingly guilty. I'm a pretty good liar, but even I struggle to do it to Fleur.

Against my better judgement, I blurt out: "I'm trying to become an animagus. That's what I've been doing all night, and that's what I wouldn't tell you last night."

Look at the ease with which I handled the press the other day. Lie after lie after lie. But a single sad look from an attractive witch had coaxed it out of me in a matter of seconds! That was supposed to be my secret and I'd vowed not to tell anyone, even Ron and Hermione. After all, it seems to make sense that if I'm doing something illegal, it shouldn't really be common knowledge.

She turns round to face me at last, letting go of the regal red petal that she had been gently clasping between her thumb and forefinger "Why wouldn't you tell me zhat last night?"

I reply, "The way I'm doing it isn't exactly... legal." Well, that's half the truth.

Before she can make any more enquiries (to which I could be forced to reveal my biggest secret of all) I pick up the pile of post that she's dumped at my feet. There's rather a lot of it.

I actually come across quite well in all the plethora of newspaper articles about me. I'm sure that the Prophet reporter who I verbally abused was tempted to write a pretty nasty piece but, of course, in doing so he would have destroyed his career. Right now, my courage is all anyone seems to want to talk about, so what sane reporter is going to come out and say anything to the contrary?

It's all pretty flattering. A lot of people have gone to great pains to create new monikers for me: The Prophet describes me as '_Harry the Humble', _while Teen Witch Weekly dubs me '_Heartthrob Harry'. _Not bad, eh ?

"You need to get ready, 'Arry. Fred's funeral is starting in a few hours." Fleur rouses me from my self-indulgence.

I furrow my eyebrows. "Fred's funeral? Nobody told me about that."

"It 'as been organised very quickly. I think zhat zhey just want to move on." Fleur explains. "So can I tell Bill zhat you will be coming?"

I nod. "Yeah, of course. Least I can do."

Continuing to flick to through the newspapers, I scream louder than Ron does when he sees a pebble-sized spider as Rita Skeeter's latest abomination comes into view. She has surpassed herself this time.

_EXCLUSIVE: HERO HARRY TO MARRY YOUNG WEASLEY_

_Sorry ladies, the youngest ever recipient of the Order of Merlin is already out of the public domain. In an exclusive interview with our brave hero's bride-to-be, I uncovered the details of what has up until now been only a rumour._

_Young Harry's choice in love is the youngest member of the infamous Weasley family, currently living on a pig farm in Devon. Yes, that's right, readers: a pig farm. Interviewing a young witch named Pansy Parkinson, 17, who described herself as "familiar" with the Weasley family, I uncovered that Young Harry's soon to be in-laws were mostly seen as "odd, stupid and lacking in personal hygiene". Not my words, readers._

_Describing to me young Harry's romantic proposal, which occurred the morning after his historic defeat of He-Who-Shall-Still-Not-Be-Named, Ginny Weasley also revealed that she and the teen prodigy are already in the process of planning their wedding._

I stop reading there, not knowing who to hate more: Skeeter or Ginny? Would Ginny really have told her any of this? She's a smart witch, after all, and she knows that journalists, especially this one, aren't to be trusted.

As for Skeeter, this is definitely her revenge against me for ignoring her raised hand in yesterday's press session. She does not dare to outwardly insult me, instead complimenting me with dripping sarcasm that few will recognise and putting me in an awkward position that will be difficult to escape from. I may despise every fibre of her body, but even I have to admit that this is a delicate move by her standards.

Fleur looks a little too amused, in my opinion, as I chuck her the article; clearly she views it as justice for how I've made her feel. Unfortunately, she hasn't quite forgiven me yet, which I guess is kind of understandable. But this, this is at least one thousand and one times worse than however unhappy I could possibly have made her feel last night. She's still laughing as she goes downstairs to confirm to Bill that I'll be attending the funeral.

As well as the newspapers, I've also been sent plenty of letters. Mostly fan mail, one invitation to a christening (Merlin knows why!) but one piece of writing from an unrecognised hand that just emanates importance. My heart sinks as I read it.

_Dear Harry,_

_Though I am sure that you have heard this a lot, I would like to both congratulate and thank you for defeating Voldemort. He has taken so much from me: my husband, my daughter and my son-in-law. I think that you of all people will understand my loss. _

_I am writing to inform you that we will be holding the last farewells to Nymphadora, Remus and my husband today at noon at our local church. I know that all three of them would like nothing better than for you to be present._

_If you do come, please meet me at my house (you should remember it) at eleven thirty._

_Please oblige me, Harry._

_Yours faithfully, _

_Andromeda Tonks._

Noon. That's in a few hours. That's the same time as Fred's funeral. Conclusion: I'm in deep shit.

There's no doubt in my mind that Remus and Tonks' funeral will, tragically, have to take priority over Fred's. Fred was a good mate and I loved him a lot, but Remus and Tonks were friends, mentors and, oh, the parents of my godchild. Unfortunately, I'm not sure the Weasleys will see my logic as quite so comprehensive...

"Fleur!" I roar downstairs. The only way that my situation could be any worse would be if I had already confirmed that I would be attending. Which is exactly what Fleur has gone to tell Bill.

There's no reply. Either my shout wasn't loud enough (doubtful, considering I'm pretty sure I shook the foundations of the cottage) or they've already left (considerably more likely). Muttering obscenities under my breath, I practically sprint from my bedroom to the bathroom.

_I thought that now Voldemort's gone my life's supposed to be less stressful, not more!_

After a quick shower, I still don't really know what to do but one thing, at least, has taken a turn for the better: now Kreacher's moved all of my clothes here, at least I won't have to wear the centaur t-shirt any more. Swiftly replacing it with a relatively smart button down shirt and formal trousers, I wonder what Molly will do to me when I tell her I'm not going to the funeral...

"Kreacher!" I call. _Maybe I should just get Kreacher to tell her for me..? No, the poor elf would be scarred forever._

He appears immediately, bowing his head respectfully. "What does Master need of Kreacher?"

"Two things: firstly, I'd like you to find Andromeda Tonks and tell her that I will be along presently. Then, you need to go Molly Weasley and ask if you can lend a hand preparing for the funeral. Got it?"

Hopefully his helping will put me in the good books of the Weasley matriarch.

"Of course, Master. Very good." Kreacher disappears with a crack, leaving a distinguishable odour where he was standing. I make a mental note to order Kreacher to have a good wash and a change of clothes. If he's going to be my house elf, he's going to have to get rid of that smell.

_Hey, maybe I could use it to ward off Ginny? Not a bad idea, actually. Definitely has some merit._

Checking that my wand is, as ever, in my pocket, I stomp down the stairs and into the kitchen, picking up an apple as I pass the table. Never go into war on an empty stomach, I've always been told. Until now, I've never understood them. I mean, when I was fighting Voldemort I was more concerned that he was trying to brutally murder me than the fact that I felt slightly peckish. But an angry Molly Weasley is another story entirely; I'm going to need all the help I can get.

_Maybe I should bring Kingsley? He'll make sure nothing happens to me. Or would that look a bit weird?_

It's not even ten o'clock yet, so I figure that I have enough time to walk the seafront before leaving. The wind is the laziest its ever been here, a breeze so light that it barely lifts my wispy fringe from my forehead. Even the waves are lethargic this morning, barely even reaching my ankles as they slap against the beach. It's tranquil and serene; certainly the calm before the storm.

It pains me somewhat to know that in a few months I'll be gone, never to return to this sandy shore that seems so separate to the chaos of the rest of the world. But that's a story for another day; for now, I'm not divulging my plans for the future with anyone.

My bubble is rudely burst by the unwelcome arrival of my elderly house elf.

"Master Harry, the Weasley woman requests your presence." He croaks, bowing his head as per.

Sighing, I resign myself to my fate. "Okay, Kreacher. Let's go."

The small, ugly elf grabs my arm and clicks his fingers; moments later we are outside the Burrow door.

The Weasley household looks almost unrecognisable on this sad day. No red-haired boys playing quidditch in the back yard, no scent of Molly's cooking wafting through the open windows, and most strange of all there is no noise. For as long as I've know it the Burrow has _always _been over-brimming with racket: Arthur tinkling with tools in his shed, Molly shouting at Fred and George for some stupid prank, Percy screaming at everyone to shut up so he can study, Ginny arguing with Ron and the pet ghoul banging on the pipes so loudly that a pair of earmuffs offered little relief. But today, nothing.

I kneel down to my elf. "Watch my back, Kreacher. This could get messy."

"Is Master Harry in danger?" The Black family servant asks suspiciously.

I laugh and reply, "Put it this way. If I had the choice between this and facing Lord Voldemort with only a rusty spoon, I'd choose the latter."

He nods slowly, perhaps taking my words slightly more seriously than intended. But hey, at least he's on the alert now.

Gently, I push open the door. Here goes!

"Harry!" I am immediately met by the crushing hug of the nicest person I've ever known. And I mean that quite honestly. The number of times this gentle woman has let me into her home, cooked me up a nice meal and given me everything I need to be comfortable at a moment's notice... I owe her a lot. But, if you disrespect or endanger one of her children, my advice is this: run as far as you can and never return. She has maternal instincts as strong as a gorilla's and as fierce as a grizzly bear's. Don't forget, this is the woman who killed Bellatrix Lestrange.

"We've reserved you a spot on the front row of the ceremony, right next to Ginny. Shall I call her down? I expect you'll want to see her."

_Nope. Not really._

"Yeah, that'd be great." I lie through my teeth. "I'll get Kreacher on it."

I turn to the elf and mouth a secret message: _TAKE YOUR TIME! _He appears to understand, nodding as he disappears with a loud crack.

Molly continues to beam at me. Why does she have to be so nice? This would be much easier if she was horrible: at least that way I'd feel less bad.

I'm thinking of a way to break the news to her when she decides to start a new conversation.

She says, "I read the papers this morning."

A cold fist clenches my heart as I realise what article she is referring to.

_Please, no. Anything but this._

I laugh uneasily. "I think the article maybe slightly exaggerated things..?"

She winks at me knowingly. Apparently she thinks I'm just being polite.

"Don't worry, Harry." She grins. "We're all behind you on this one. It seems right that you become an official member of the family."

I thank her awkwardly, unwilling to argue with her about Ginny for the moment. No, that's just another thing that I've got to look forward to in the future when I finally find the courage to tell Ginny that I'd rather engage in a passionate relationship with Hagrid's pet dog Fang than with her.

"Look, Molly. There's something that I've got to tell you. Fred's funeral... I can't come." I stutter, looking straight down to the floor.

She looks confused for a second before laughing. Okay, not what I'd been expecting.

"Oh, Harry. You can't still think that it's not your place to be with the family after all these years? We all want you there."

I close my eyes and stutter, "No, well, yes. But... I'm not sure how to put this."

"How to put what?" Molly's sensing something's up now, and she's locked onto it like a heat-seeking curse.

"There's been a massive cock up with funeral scheduling." I explain, putting on a brave face.

_For what I am about to receive..._

"Lupin and Tonks' funeral has been scheduled at the same time as Fred's and-"

She cuts me off, her eyes narrowing into _search and destroy _mode. "And you decided that they're more important than my son? After all we have done for you?"

She starts the sentence with a hushed, calm almost mocking tone, daring me to continue. But by the last word, I'm getting blasted by the full power of the infamous Molly Weasley voice box. I'm not entirely sure how to reply because to be honest, I can see why she's angry. Fred's her son, for goodness sake. Of course she'll be upset that I'm not going to pay him my respects, even if it's not blatantly not my fault.

"Look, Mrs Weasley." I try to explain. "I had to make a choice and it wasn't easy but-"

She cuts my attempt to justify myself short once again. "But what? Fred isn't worth your time but Remus and Tonks are? How many times did they take you into their homes over the holidays so that you could escape from your relatives?"

_Yeah, fair point._

Merlin, this is a difficult argument. I mean, how do you debate with someone who switches from yelling to wailing in half a second? It's made even harder by the fact that Molly's cries have attracted just about the entire family to come and watch.

_Give me Voldemort any day of the week._

I'm attracting a lot of glares, but they don't intervene: they know their mother too well to get in her way when she's in a mood like this.

In the corner of my eye I notice my two house mates watching from a doorway to my left. Bill has a positively murderous expression on his long, scarred face while the French witch is looking at me oddly, presumably wondering what I could possibly have done to anger and upset the lovely Mrs Weasley so much. I bite my lip guiltily. This is going even worse than I'd expected, and I'd expected blood, gore and maybe some casualties.

"I do owe Remus and Tonks a lot, actually." I say quietly, so that only Molly can hear me. This is between me and her; it's nobody else's business until I tell them myself, though half of them know anyway.

For once, she doesn't reply.

"They made me the godfather of their child, Mrs Weasley." I explain, still in that hushed, intimate tone. "And how can you repay someone who gives you something like that?"

There's a tear in her eye now and I know it's time to go. The expressions on the Weasleys' faces tell me that they think so too. Bill and Charlie look furious, Arthur doesn't look as though he's really concentrating, but at least Ron looks sympathetic. I've been unfair to him recently, trying to distance myself from him and Hermione. But I think, looking at him, that he understands the difficultly of my choice. He's a good friend; more than I deserve.

"Well, I'll be off then." I murmur awkwardly. "I'll do everything I can to make it here for the end, at least."

Quickly, I scan the room for George, intending to wish him my best, but he isn't here. The poor guy's probably still holed up in the room he used to share with his twin. Shit, this is probably going to be the hardest day he'll ever have to face in his life, which definitely doesn't serve to reassure me that I'm making the right choice.

With a respectful nod, I turn back to the exit with Kreacher at my side. The little elf, normally keen to chip in with a snide remark at any juncture, hasn't uttered a word throughout the conversation. To be fair, I don't think he's the only one to be lost for words at the complete emotional breakdown of one of the strongest women in the wizarding world.

As my hand grasps the doorknob, Mrs Weasley surprises everyone by making one last comment.

"You want to know why you owe Fred?" She snarls in a malicious tone that I hadn't thought her capable of. "If you hadn't brought You-Know-Who to Hogwarts in the first place, he'd still be with us. That's why."

I've never known Molly Weasley to try to lay blame on anyone's doorstep. Never. She is the kind of woman who immediately looks for and notices the good, however minuscule, in everyone she meets. She is the kind of woman who people seek for comfort and reassurance, both of which she is always happy to provide. She is the kind of woman who will forgive almost anyone unquestioningly.

I turn around slowly. "What did you say?"

A phoenix is a most retributive creature in both a kind and cruel way. Whether someone has done a good or a bad deed, a phoenix always seeks to ensure that they get what they deserve. I think that the phoenix in me knows that I do not deserve to be blamed for all those deaths which is why my response is so fiery and explosive. But the other part of me knows that even if it wasn't my fault, she's still right: if I'd worked faster, and gone to fight him quicker, then fewer people would have died.

"You have no idea what you're talking about. No idea. Do you really think I would endanger my school, my friends if it wasn't absolutely necessary? If you knew _anything_ about what I had to go through to just to get to the point where I could destroy him..."

By the time I finish my rant, I'm standing nose to nose with her, my green eyes piercing hers like razor sharp blades.

"Harry, mate." Ron says from the staircase. "I think you should leave."

He's not saying it in a malevolent way; he just wants to protect his mother. As he glances at me reproachfully, I hang my head in shame. The woman's just lost her son! Of course she's not going to be thinking or speaking entirely clearly.

I cough, clearing my throat. "I'm sorry."

It's impossible to make eye contact with any of the Weasleys right now because if I do, there's a chance that I'll see blame there. And that's what I fear most of all, now. Not Voldemort, not dementors, but blame from those I love for the deaths of those I used to love.

**I did warn you about Mrs Weasley, and I do promise that she won't continue in this same vein because I like her as a character too much. Hope you enjoyed the chapter.**


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Andromeda Tonks has a rather nice house, something that I failed to notice during my last visit. It's old and small, with a single chimney puffing thin smoke and a lush garden full of flowers of all descriptions. Tall, elegant vines climb up its walls, obscuring much of the red brick behind them. To me it looks like the average family home, a far cry from the Burrow's infinite oddities. Yes, I can certainly imagine myself settling down in a place like this.

Its owner notices me admiring the house through her kitchen window and rushes to meet me. Once again, I am struck by how similar she looks to her dead (thankfully) sister, especially now she's wearing black. Like Bellatrix used to have, Andromeda has thick, shining hair, long eyelashes and uncommonly good looks for her age. Though in the nine or ten months since I last saw her, she definitely looks as though she's aged several years. It makes me sad, that so much can change in so little time; in quick succession, she lost her husband, her son-in-law and, most painfully of all, her only daughter.

"Sorry, I'm a bit early." I start to say before she cuts me off with a hug. I am surprised by her affection; we've met only once, and even that encounter was brief. It is here, though, that I notice the stark contrasts between her and Bellatrix. Her eyes are infinitely softer, a sort of hazelnut colour, and she lacks that unhinged aura that her sister had proudly boasted. It's difficult to imagine that she is the aunt of Draco, let alone the sister of a mass murderer.

"Thank you for coming," she whispers into my ear. "I was worried that you'd be too busy."

At this juncture I realise that I'm being hugged by a woman who's on a knife edge between sanity and mental breakdown. She's lost everything, left alone in her family cottage. Molly Weasley's words return to me: "If you hadn't brought You-Know-Who to Hogwarts, Fred would still be with us."  
>And the same applies here. I return her hug even more strongly.<p>

"Come inside. There's something I want to show you." She beckons, after extricating herself from my warm embrace.

She leads me inside the house, which is as spotlessly tidy as it was the last time I was there. Every surface shines and gleams in a way that can only be artificially achieved; I guess she's been trying to keep herself busy these last couple of days.  
>Putting her finger to her lips as we walk up the stairs, she smiles confidentially at me, and it is then that I realise where we are going. Anticipation tingles over my skin like tiny electric goosebumps, because I'm about to finally meet my godson.<p>

Turning into the first room on the right, I see a cradle sitting in the corner of an otherwise almost bare space. It is a quite eerie sight, because this room is a far cry from the sort of nursery I'd always imagined a child would play in. I can remember very little of my early days, but I do sometimes recall being surrounded by toys and furniture and decorations and vibrant colours, all put there to please me.

Andromeda answers my unasked question: "We hadn't anticipated that he'd ever really stay here. 'Dora and Remus had been putting together his room in their place when..."  
>I move to comfort her. "There's no need to worry, we can transfer everything to here. It won't take a second."<p>

Of course, I can't guarantee that. Merlin, I can't guarantee anything right now; this is all new to me.

"He reminds me a lot of 'Dora, actually." She continues, a small tear drop cascading from the bottom corner of a wide, brown eye, making its slow descent down the smooth skin of her face. "Every time I see him he looks different. I'm not even sure what colour his hair naturally is, now I come to think of it."

A choke that could, feasibly, be a sob or a laugh escapes from her mouth.

"So he's a metamorphagus like Ton-... his mother?" I check. Hmm, interesting indeed. If he's just managed to pick up a few other features of his parents then he's sure to be a great kid.

Oh, Merlin's beard. A few other features of his parents...?

"Has there been a full moon yet, since he's been born?" I panic. Remus had been certain that his child would inherit his lycamphropy, and he knew more about the nature of the werewolf than anyone...

A dark look passes over Andromeda's face, but she shakes her head. "No, but I don't think his father's condition has passed onto him, thank Merlin. That's what my heart tells me, anyway."

Before I can argue that we need to carry out tests and feed him potions, she gently grasps my arm and pulls me over to the cot. Staring up at me are the tiny, minuscule eyes of Teddy Lupin: the son of one of the greatest men I ever knew, and my godson. My godson! The words are still sinking in.  
>He's absolutely tiny. Is he really supposed to be so small? I wonder, is this how Sirius felt when he first saw me?<p>

"Would you like to pick him up?" His grandmother offers. A hint of a smile dances over her lips at my infantile excitement. I probably look like a kid discovering chocolate for the first time.  
>"I'm not sure I'd know what to do," I hesitate, though I would like nothing better. "I wouldn't want to drop him or something."<br>She rolls her eyes and, with the practised efficiency of any mother, scoops up the quiet child into the cradle of her arms. How does she make it look so easy? Merlin, I bet I'll drop him...

I make a crude impression of her cradle shape with my own arms as she places him carefully within my nervous grasp. He adds no weight to my arms, as though he hardly weighs an ounce! Those glistening eyes and tiny face are so innocent in their curiosity, it's impossible not to gaze at them with utmost affection. His tiny bones feel so fragile and brittle; surely just the slightest bit of pressure could break him! "Am I doing it right?" I check, a stupid grin plastered all over my face.  
>She replies, as though to a child, "You're doing excellently." Then, she turns more serious. "Now you have seen him, do you really think that he could possibly have his father's condition? What does your heart tell you?"<p>

I look down again and see a human in its purest form: innocent and perfect. A small smile breaks my concentrated expression as I now understand why she is so sure that he, thankfully, has not inherited his father's curse. It is inconceivable to me that any being so pure and perfect as the one in my arms could have the concentrated anger and malevolence of a werewolf inside of it. Maybe I don't have an official healer's report on the matter, but I am sure in my heart of hearts that I am not carrying a werewolf in my arms.

"Did you hear that?" Andromeda whispers, suddenly alert.  
>I look up from the smiling baby. "Hear what?"<br>The witch's hand slithers down to her wand pocket. "The front door. I heard it open and then close."

Merlin, Harry. A couple of days of peace and already you're letting your guard down?

"A guest?" I suggest, carefully placing young Teddy back in his cot. Andromeda's an experienced and talented witch, like her sister, so if she senses trouble it is wise to listen.  
>She shakes her head. "I told everyone to meet at the church and besides, it isn't even starting for another half hour. And believe me, I'm not used to getting visitors."<p>

I nod and draw my own wand. "Stay with Teddy." I mouth. Reluctantly, she acquiesces. On my tiptoes, I creep to the closed door of the room and stand next to it. Andromeda nods at me, her wand also drawn. My heart beating rhythmically in my chest, I briefly realise that I have definitely missed the exhilaration inherent to risky situations. With a roar I rip open the door and point my wand out.

"Fleur!" I groan. "What are you doing here? And couldn't you have knocked?"  
>I don't lower my wand, though. Death Eaters have extensive knowledge of both polyjuice potion and the imperius curse.<p>

She certainly looks like Fleur; skin unblemished, hair so silvery that it actually reflects light, and eyes that are both kind and evaluating, like a hybrid of Dumbledore and McGonagall. Weird though, I know.

Raising her hands, she says apologetically: "I am sorry! I just thought zhat you might not want to 'ave to go to a funeral by yourself, especially after what Mrs Weasley said. But of course, if you do not want me 'ere..."

Yup. That's definitely Fleur. Who else can flutter their eyelids so deliciously that even while apologising to me, I feel like the guilty one.

Reluctantly I lower my wand, but keep my hand close by. A part of me, I think, had actually hoped for an intruder. A few days into peace, and I'm already yearning for another fire fight, like withdrawal symptoms after quitting the most addictive of drugs.

"You didn't have to do that, but thanks anyway, I guess. Won't Bill be a bit annoyed that you're not at Fred's?" I ask. Sure, I'm worried that that the Weasleys might miss her, but I'm more worried that Mrs Weasley will use this opportunity to get at me and her even more.

"He will not notice, and I think they should 'ave zhis time to themselves. Besides, I liked Tonks. She was funny."

Fleur's wearing a black, conservative funeral robe that tries to hide the shape of her attractive body (which fails miserably, by the way); clearly she doesn't want her sex appeal to be the centre of attention at something so serious and tragic as the funeral of a dear friend. Unfortunately, however, there is no robe on this planet that would look unattractive on her, including Ron's Yule Ball gown. Another weird thought.

Andromeda coughs politely from the corner. "Harry, do you mind telling me who this is?"  
>"Oh!" I exclaim. "Where are my manners? May I introduce Fleur Delacour: my landlady."<br>I get a light slap on the shoulder from the French witch for that last remark, which I guess I deserve.  
>They shake hands. "I am very sorry about your daughter," Fleur says solemnly. "As I said to 'Arry, I liked 'er very much."<p>

To be honest, it has never occurred to me that Fleur and Tonks could have been close. I mean, they're pretty much polar opposites in terms of character. Tonks was clumsy, completely uncaring about her appearance (though she was very pretty nonetheless) and always seeking to entertain. Fleur, on the other hand, moves like an angel, always likes to look good and generally keeps to herself. Maybe opposites do attract after all. That would explain Hermione and Ron, I guess.

"Thank you." Andromeda replies, equally solemnly. "But at least she left something of her behind."  
>She gestures towards the cot in the corner. Fleur squeals excitedly. "Yes! I remember Remus telling us about 'im. 'Is name is Teddy, yes? Can I hold 'im?"<p>

I've never seen the French witch so animated. Looks like I've finally found the thing that can break that demeanour of hers.

Andromeda laughs and replies: "Of course."

The two witches have taken an immediate liking to each other, which I guess makes things easier.

Fleur has a wide smile on her face as she cradles the baby gently. Trying to describe how good she looks when she's happy is impossible. Everything about her seems even lighter: that silvery hair shines brighter, her skin glows dimly like moonlight and her dazzling teeth are lustrous in the extreme. Another thing is that her aura becomes stronger as she gets happier, and right now it's almost tangible. It's like a magnetic pull, getting more powerful by the second, and I have to erect a pretty damn powerful occlumency shield to stop myself from turning into a drooling mess.

"What did she mean, when she said Molly had said something to you?" The grandmother of my godson asks. She's standing next to me as we both admire Fleur's natural maternal instincts.

I wave my hand nonchalantly. "Oh, nothing."

Fleur looks up sharply and glares at me intensely. "It was not nothing, 'Arry. What she said was unacceptable."  
>Seeing that I am unwilling to talk about it, she takes the liberty of doing it herself. "She said that it was his fault that Fred died because Voldemort went to Hogwarts looking for him."<p>

Again, I notice that her accent is much better when she's happy and comfortable. Curious.

"That's a horrible thing to say!" Andromeda agrees, scandalised. "Don't listen to a word of it, Harry. She's just in a bad way at the moment, that's all."

I nod vaguely as Fleur shoots me a look that says: We're talking about this later!

The matter is, however, swiftly dropped and we pass time discussing frivolities of little importance: politics, Quidditch and even the weather. Fleur continues to hold Teddy as if he's her own child and Andromeda doesn't seem to mind. Yeah, as I said, the two have really hit it off. When noon approaches, and with it the funeral, I realise that I've actually ended up having quite a nice morning.  
>But now it's time to say goodbye to a dear friend and mentor, and I'm not quite sure that I'm ready to do so yet.<p>

The funeral passes with little excitement. Other than the fact that only a handful of people have turned up (seriously, Professor Binns' weekly book club would get a larger turn-out than this!) it's a generally decent occasion. The church is small and discreet, modestly designed, with a soaring blue stone steeple as its only distinguishing feature. This is, in my opinion, just as Remus would have liked it, never having been one for grandeur or magnificence.

There are barely ten rows of seats in the interior, which is just as tiny as it looks on the outside, yet it still looks more than half empty. I sit with Andromeda and Kingsley, who has 'coincidentally' arrived at the same funeral as me, while poor Fleur is relegated to the row behind. Every so often she jabs me sharply in the kidney to stop me from drifting off under the influence of the speaker's droning, uninspiring speech; I make a mental note to thank her for that later.

The occasion becomes somewhat more interesting as the speaker announces that it is time for the personal speeches. Andromeda delivers a passionate account on her husband's life, portraying him as a champion of blood equality, as well as a brilliant family man. Then, it's time for Kingsley's prepared speech on Tonks. He's become a good orator, making full use of the resonating quality of his strong voice to deliver a speech with touches of both comedy and melancholy, which I guess pretty much sums up Tonks' life and death respectively. I like to think that there's more comedy there, though. He takes his seat to thundering applause (well, as thunderous as applause can be when there are only about twenty people in attendance) having clearly won the favour of the audience. He's certainly going to make a good Minister for Magic.

Then, the afternoon takes a turn for the worse. The speaker, a small balding man who looks like he's seen too many Winters, retakes his position in the pulpit and, after clearing his throat, asks for the speech on Remus Lupin. Nobody stands, and he asks the question again in that infuriatingly nasal voice. Still, nobody rises and I realise that nobody is going to; Andromeda hasn't organised for anybody to speak for him.

I am left in a furious debate with myself. Should I step in? Surely it is my responsibility to do so, considering what that man did for me. Of course, however, standing up and speaking is easier said than done for somebody who hates the spotlight. I've been in the public eye for my entire life, and still I have absolutely no stomach for it.

But in the end, Remus was my friend and I know that I have no choice in the matter.

I stand up. "I'll do it."

My walk to the podium is slow. After all, I need time to try and invent something that even half resembles a speech. Unfortunately, as usual, my brain shuts down at a crucial juncture and despite walking so slowly that I'm practically being overtaken by stationary objects, I have made absolutely no progress by the time I finally arrive. Looks like it's going to have to be another improvisation.

"Erm... hi." I start by saying, casting a discreet sonorous charm on myself as I do so. My eyes flick over the assembled audience, which is basically a handful middle-aged strangers who I'll most likely never lay my eyes on again. I shouldn't feel so apprehensive.

But then my vision settles on the one person who does make this worth it: little Teddy Lupin, lying calmly in his levitated cot. Even though he'll probably never remember this day, he deserves a proper send off for his dad and I'll do my best to provide that for him.

"I knew Remus Lupin for about five years, but our story goes back much further than that," I say, the sonorous charm providing the gusto that I would otherwise have struggled with. "He was one of my dad's best friends when they were at school together. Remus always talked about those days as the best of his life, at least until he got together with Tonks. It always made me happy to hear that because apart from these specks of joy, he had a pretty tough life. He was dealt a pretty horrible hand right from his earliest years, but he never complained. He got on with his life and the result was pretty spectacular."

I pause to gauge the audience's reaction so far. Most of them, at least, look vaguely interested and only one person appears to have actually fallen asleep, which I find strangely encouraging. I glance to Fleur and our eyes meet. She gives me an inspiriting nod, which sends a couple of silvery hairs loose from her formal ponytail. They float around for a bit, their striking colouring making them visible from even this distance, before settling at her temples, at which point she quickly slots them back into position. Merlin knows why I found that simple action so mesmerising.

I continue, "Remus was a werewolf."

That'll wake them up!

"This wasn't something that he was ashamed of, but at the same time he hardly broadcast it far and wide. But despite this, he lived his life as the kindest, bravest, most tolerant and modest person I ever knew. His greatest fear was that his son, who is here today, would be embarrassed of him and his condition but to him I would say, and I wish I'd told him more often, that no son could ever be ashamed of such a great father."

Kingsley starts the applause but I barely hear it, just relieved that my ordeal is over. I really do hate public speaking, although I'm pretty sure that I've just improvised the finest speech that I will ever deliver. Not saying much, I know, but better than a poke in the eye with a pointy stick.

Sweat is trickling like warm blood down my back (believe me, I know what that feels like) and my heart is pumping blood on double time, but I've still got one last trick up my sleeve.

"And just before I finish, I would like to thank the new Minister for Magic for guaranteeing that Remus will be forever remembered by giving him the honour of a posthumous Order of Merlin First Class. A round of applause for Kingsley, if you will!"

Yeah, I have a way of getting what I want. Teddy gets proof that his dad was a great man and Kingsley gets to enjoy his round of applause. Everybody's happy!

I use this opportunity to quietly slink from the podium back into my seat as the adrenaline seeps from my veins and my heart beat returns to its normal, steady pace. Andromeda gives me a lukewarm congratulations, though I think she's slightly upset that my speech overshadowed those of her husband and daughter. I didn't mean to, I swear!

Getting a soft pat on my back, I swivel in my seat to see what the lovely Fleur has to say. She's smiling radiantly, blindingly, in an expression that extends right to her eyes, which serves to soften them even further.

"Well done!" She exclaims happily. "That was very good, Harry! I am very impressed!"

Her voice has a musical quality to it which, it now occurs to me, must be what an angel would sound like. It's so soft that upon hearing it, I just can't help but return her smile. And I swear her accent's never been so good!

I thank her, perhaps holding my gaze for a little longer than appropriate, before turning around. The speaker's beginning to finish the ceremony and, for appearance's sake at least, I should be facing him as he does so. To my right, Kingsley pokes me. His eyebrows are furrowed and his eyes narrow; it wouldn't take Albus Dumbledore to work out that he's not happy with me.

"It would have been better if you'd consulted me about Remus' Order of Merlin," he breathes in my ear. "We should be working together."  
>I reply, perhaps somewhat bluntly, "I had to ensure that it got done, for Teddy's sake."<br>"If you'd just asked, then maybe it would have been anyway. Just because you're Harry Potter, it doesn't mean that you have the right to take over Ministry responsibilities."

He doesn't shout (Kingsley never shouts) but his voice does adopt a harsh, stern pitch not unlike McGonagall's. You can, however, always tell when he's annoyed because behind that practised apathy, his lips tauten and his eyes narrow. But this argument isn't actually about Remus Lupin, not really; this is Kingsley trying to boast his new authority and show who's boss.

My answer is hissed harshly. "Fuck off, Kingsley. If you were listening during our conversation in Dumbledore's Office, you'll realise that I told you I have absolutely no interest in your Ministry. Why would I want to plunge my hands into the filth of that system, where Death Eaters and blood supremacists dictate everything the Minister does?"

Maybe not my most delicate response ever, but I guess he probably got the idea.

Other than a revealing twitch developing in his right eye, his expression remains passive and he doesn't reply, as though I haven't bothered him whatsoever. I know I have, though. He needs me more than I need him. In fact, come to think of it, I don't need him at all!

When the ceremony ends, he wastes no time in storming off to consult his new Ministry advisers about what his next move should be. Kingsley is, I know, a good man at heart; he's got to be careful that his new power doesn't corrupt him like it did that pompous arse Fudge. I stay seated as everyone else files out. Andromeda's organised the post-funeral party at her house, and I have no particular wish to attend. My intention is to quickly say goodbye to her and Teddy before I get drawn into a conversation with one of the superficial socialites in attendance.

Turning around, I expect to see Fleur's beaming features but she's already gone. Something else, however, does catch my eye: Kingsley has emerged from a heated discussion with his temporary chief auror, and to say he looks unhappy would be a gross understatement. He appears to be at least ten times angrier than he was at my insubordination, which means he's probably just been told some very, very bad news.

Of course, thanks to me and my big mouth, I now can't ask him what the problem is. After all, I just swore that I have no interest in Ministry affairs.

I make a snap decision on my course of action which I know I'll most likely regret in the near and distant future. Put it this way, it's probably for the best that Fleur's gone because I really don't want her to see what I'm about to do.

"Kreacher!" I summon the aged elf to my side. He appears with a loud crack and kneels.  
>"What does Master command?"<br>I sigh. To be honest, I'm still not really sure that I want to go through with this. "I need you to watch Kingsley for a couple of days, keep me informed on what's going on. Anything that you think is important, you tell me."  
>Kreacher looks a bit confused. "Master wants me to spy on the Minister of Magic?"<p>

Damn! I'd really been hoping that we could avoid using the 's' word, for my conscience's sake.

"Just tell me anything important, okay? I need to know what's going on."

It's a sign how much Kreacher has changed that he actually looks somewhat uncomfortable at my order, but I can't really see any other way keeping myself in the loop. Can I trust Kingsley to do his job, or will be become an ineffectual as his predecessors?

Whatever the case, it must be bad form on my part that I'd rather spy on Kingsley with a historically psychopathic elf than just apologise to him and withdraw my statement. Damn my stubbornness.

Kreacher does as he's told and disappears. Hopefully he'll start right away; despite my reservations, I am curious to find out what his chief auror had to tell him that caused him so much anguish.

Finally, the church empties. Andromeda has been waiting patiently at the oak doors, thanking all of the guests for taking the time to come. Now it's my turn and because I'm the last, I know that I'll get some privacy with her.

"Thank you again for coming, Harry." She smiles sadly as I approach. "It would have meant the world to 'Dora, I just know it."  
>Shaking my head I reply, "I would never have missed it. They were brilliant friends. But unfortunately, with your permission, I think I'll have to skip the party. To be here I sort of had to miss another funeral, so I'd like to poke my head into that one, if you don't mind."<br>"Oh, I'm so sorry!" She puts her hand to her mouth. "It never even occurred to me. Of course you can go, don't worry about me."

At her side, young Teddy inexplicably starts laughing in his floating cot. I'm no expert on babies, but I'm pretty sure he's pretty much as perfect as they come. I mean, I thought that they were supposed to cry, scream and generally be an annoyance, but he's just sat through a service about as interesting as Arthur Weasley's muggle collection without making a peep. Kudos to the little guy, my godson. My godson! I'm still not used to that.

"Well, I'd best be going, then." I say, leaning in to kiss Andromeda on the cheek. "But I'll see you again very soon. I'm going to make sure that I'm a good godfather."

"Don't worry about that, you will be." She says reassuringly. "Now go on, get to your other party."

After another quick hug, I set off in search of Fleur. I have to navigate through guest after guest dying to talk to me about my victory over the Dark Lord, but eventually I find Fleur talking to none other than the Minister of Magic.

This annoys me so much that I don't even stop to admire how good Fleur looks in her dress from a distance. Kingsley's sure to have a reason for talking to her, and I'm pretty sure that I'll be involved somehow.

Striding up to them, I say: "What's all this about, Kingsley?"

The two of them turn to look at me, both looking genuinely confused. Kingsley is always difficult to read, his face capable of blanking out any emotion, but Fleur's expressive eyes so often betray her. And right now, they are blank.

"What do you mean, Harry?" Kingsley asks innocently. "I was just catching up with Fleur."

I examine him suspiciously, narrowing my eyes as I check for any telling signs on that blank face. But to his credit, he really does seem to be telling the truth.

"We were, Harry." Fleur assures me. "Why are you so concerned."

Merlin, when did I become so suspicious of my friends?

Spluttering awkwardly, I say: "No, sorry. I was just... Either way, Fleur, we should get back to the Burrow."

She looks as me suspiciously, wondering what had caused my suspicion; a smart girl, I don't doubt that she's already realised that my relationship with Kingsley is fast deteriorating. But she obviously decides not to bring it up, for now, as she links our arms for a side-along apparation. As she turns away, Kingsley shoots me a somewhat smug glance. Maybe they were just catching up, but he knows he's got me rattled.

Politics is a complicated game. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

As my new environment materialises around me, I see that Fleur has apparated us to a field located just a few minutes away from the Burrow. What can I deduce from that? She wants to talk to me before we are thrust back into the Weasley household, where privacy is pretty much impossible.

"So I guess you want to talk, huh?" I say, looking around me. Not too far away, I can see the immediately recognisable shape of the Burrow. A small, thin wisp of smoke is rising from its chimney into the dark clouds above. I love the place and I always will, for as long as I am welcome there.

I continue, "That thing with Kingsley. I just don't trust him, that's all. And I didn't want to think that he was trying to use you to persuade me to help him."

Fleur shakes her head and removes her ponytail as she does so, sending that light, feathery, silver hair flying in all directions. It soon settles around her shoulders, as though just washed and brushed. Truly, it is mesmerising to watch.

"You should give Kingsley more credit, 'Arry." She tells me strictly, like a teacher rebuking a naughty student. "Not everyone corrupted by power. But that is not what I wanted to talk about anyway."

She starts to walk, expecting me to follow. I can't help but lag behind a bit just so that I can admire her legs as she walks. Those shapely muscles on the back of her long, hairless legs contract and relax like a well-oiled machine. I shake my head, trying to clear it of any inappropriate things about her. She's my friend, and I have been able to control myself around her since my fourth year. Why now, are my base instincts reasserting themselves?

Continuing, she says: "I was talking with Andromeda after the funeral, and she offered something to me. Obviously I'd have to ask your permission first, but..."

She tails off, apparently not knowing how to finish her sentence. Once again, I am impressed by how far her English is developing. Her pronunciation is almost perfect now, but it still has that French undertone that makes it so musical and sexy.

"Andromeda told me that, if I have your permission, I can be Teddy's godmother." She finally finishes. "I know I only met him today, and I know you will probably want to choose 'Ermione, but I just think you should know I would be very 'appy to do it."

I don't answer immediately. She was very good with him this morning, and she befriended Andromeda very quickly. But is Hermione expecting to be named godmother? Or Mrs Weasley? Or, God forbid, Ginny? I don't really want to hurt anyone's feelings.

Fleur senses my uncertainty. "It's okay if you don't want me to. I know that I haven't known you or Remus or Tonks for as long as the others." 

She's right, and I'm about to tell her so, but then I remember the look on her face when she first saw my godson. I'd originally thought that was simply the way that all women reacted to babies, but Fleur's reaction was something special. Her features had lit up like a Christmas tree, revealing a bright side to Fleur that she had always kept hidden behind that façade of quiet dignity. And it occurs to me, I want to see that side of Fleur more often, because everyone deserves to be happy (and it certainly doesn't hurt that she looks even sexier when she's smiling).

"No," I decide. "I think you are perfect for the job. You handled Teddy in a way this morning that I never could. He's going to need someone like you in his life."

She squeals, once again revealing that enlivened side to her, and brings me in for a tight hug. At that moment, I know I've made the right choice, and not just because her breasts feel really nice crushed against my chest. She's got the enthusiasm that every mother needs and every child deserves. I return the hug with pleasure.

When she separates us, there's a slightly more worried expression on her face. "What about 'Ermione? I don't want her to be upset with you."

"Don't worry about her," I say casually, though I know that it might be difficult to tell her. "I'll handle it. But if you wouldn't mind, I'd rather if you didn't tell anyone until I've got it all ironed out."

"Deal". We shake hands and carry on walking and soon, reach the gates to the Burrow.

I stop Fleur. "You should sneak in round the back, or else they will realise that you came with me."

She nods and starts to move, but I grab her arm. "Fleur, I'd just like to say thanks for coming with me, today. I thought that I'd be able to cope by myself, but I'm really glad you were there. You're a really good friend."

Fleur laughs at that and leans in to kiss me on the cheek friendlily. It's not a romantic or sexual kiss, but those lips, so incredibly soft, do feel good on my skin. "Oh, Harry. You must know by now that we are much more than just friends."

Before I can reply, she walks off, leaving me intrigued and rubbing my cheek, where I swear I can still feel the light touch of her lips. What did she mean by 'more than friends'? And hey, I think that was the first time she's ever pronounced by name correctly. Our relationship's making some pretty fast progress!

I watch her sneak round the side and let herself in. It looks like she's got in safely and unnoticed, so I guess it's my turn. Opening the gate, I walk down the path that leads to the Burrow's front door. This is a bad, bad idea. I'm not wanted here; if Fred hadn't been my friend, I would definitely have never even considered coming here.

It is with great anxiousness that I knock once more on the door.

_Look on the bright side, Harry. It can hardly go worse than last time!_

Some greater power must be on my side today, because it is Arthur who answers the door. There is no judgement on his face; his smile suggests that he is even genuinely happy to see me.

"Harry!" He exclaims and we shake hands warmly. He's been crying, I can tell, but he still makes the effort to make me feel welcome. That's what makes him such a great man. "We knew you'd come."

I nod gratefully. "I would have come for the whole thing, you know I would, Arthur. But Remus and Tonks... They trusted me with their son."

"And nobody begrudges you that, Harry." He says soothingly. "Emotions were high this morning; I'm sure Molly didn't mean what she said."

We chat for a few more minutes, mostly because I don't want to face the rest of the family, before Ron and Hermione turn the corner into the landing.

"Oh, Harry!" Ron says, surprised. "Good to see you, mate. Hope you don't mind any of the stuff said earlier. Sure you understand that everyone's touchy."

Classic Ron response: blunt and to the point. But that's exactly what I need right now. I pull him in for a quick hug.

It's Hermione's turn next. "We've barely seen you in days, Harry. I can't help but feel you're avoiding us for some reason."

"Nonsense!" I lie. "Guess I just thought that you guys needed some space and besides, we saw each other pretty much every day for months. Can't hurt to try and get back into normal life, right?"

"No," She says, but doesn't look convinced. "Guess not. Now, come on. You missed the ceremony, but you can still join in the party." 

I raise one eyebrow at that. "The party?"

I haven't seen much of what's going on, but the Burrow honestly does not look or sounds like it is hosting a 'party' right now.

My best friends of seven years lead me into the sitting room, where it is a very solemn affair. The 'party' consists of a few groups of people talking sadly amongst themselves. George is sitting alone in the biggest armchair, cradling a glass of what looks like firewhisky. I'm not sure what's more concerning: the fact that he's drinking it, or the fact that Molly isn't stopping him.

Don't get me wrong, I'd been aware that this was a funeral, and that funeral parties are not the same as normal parties, but I guess I'd assumed that someone would have made an effort considering who it is who's died. I can't help but feel that this is not the best way of commemorating Fred; he wouldn't have wanted this. What he would have wanted is a massive party, where all of his friends relived his finest pranks and best jokes.

Hermione and Ron soon leave, probably to kiss, and I'm left stranded by myself. I scan the room for familiar faces: Fleur's talking to Bill, apparently having convinced him that he hadn't seen much of her because she'd been ill, a few of Fred's Hogwarts friends are gathered in a corner and Molly's running around trying to keep herself busy. When she inevitably catches my eye, she does not scream or glare at me; she just ignores me. And to a certain extent, I think that might be even worse.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and I turn around. Ginny.

"Hey Harry." She says, batting her eyelashes. She looks good today. The black gown she's wearing hugs her small body in all the right places, accentuating her natural endowments, while showing off as much skin as appropriate in a funeral gown. She's gone a bit heavy on the mascara, in my opinion, but she does look really nice.

"Ginny," I say with a practised smile. "Are you okay? It must have been a tough day for you."

She nods, a little sadly. "Yeah, it's been tough. But I guess it has been for everyone."

This is more like the Ginny I'd been truly attracted to in the past: mature and tough.

"And I just want you to know," she continues, "that I don't hold it against you that you went to Remus' funeral instead of Fred's. It must have been a tough choice."

_This is weird. Why is she being so understanding?_

"Yeah, it was."

"You should keep your distance from mum, though. And Bill and Charlie, now I come to think of it. They'll get over it eventually, but they aren't your biggest fans right now."

I glance over to where Ginny's oldest brothers are standing and sure enough, my peek is met with glares. Of course, it's going to be easier said than done keeping away from Bill when I'm currently staying in his house.

Ginny suggests: "Maybe the best way of keeping away from them would be if we went up to my room?"

_Hmm, is this an innocent request? Because if it's not, I need an excuse pronto. Better not take the risk._

"Ginny, I kinda came here to pay my respects to Fred." I said with fake regret. "I think I should do that, before anything else."

She replies, craftily: "I was hoping to talk to you about that article in the newspapers today?"

_Oh yes, the article. Don't I still need to kill you for that?_

With a sigh, I follow her up to her room, because this is an issue that needs to be dealt with quickly. As we leave the room, Fleur shoots me a not-so-subtle _BE CAREFUL _expression.

Ginny's room is exactly as I remember it, from the little time I've spent in there. It is small and exciting, with moving posters of quidditch starts and wizarding celebrities covering the walls. Unlike other girls' rooms, there is not a spot of pink in sight. On her dresser, she keeps a few photos. There's one of Luna, one of the whole DA, a family one and one with me from our sixth year, when I had actually wanted to be with her. They seem to be ranked in terms of importance, meaning it's probably a good sign that mine has been relegated to second, behind the family photo.

"So, the article?" I prompt.

Ginny closes the door behind her and sits on the bed, gesturing for me to join her. I'd kind of been hoping that we'd avoid the bed, to be honest.

"I didn't say any of that stuff to Rita Skeeter." She says straight out, and I sigh in relief. "But that doesn't mean to say that I didn't say it at all."

_So much for that sigh of relief._

"What do you mean?" I ask, confused.

Ginny explains, "In the Great Hall, after everything that happened, I was boasting to one of my friends that I was going to marry you. She must have overheard that."

"Merlin, Ginny." I sigh, "It's the Great Hall! Not a sanatorium for the fucking deaf!"

To her credit, she does actually look guilty. It was probably unfair of me to be so harsh; accidents do, after all, happen all the time, and Rita Skeeter had always been very good at getting the information she wants.

"But I was thinking," she continues. "Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea, anyway."

I start to protest, having planned meticulously for this moment. I have enough excuses for why I can't marry her to last a lifetime.

"Just hear me out, Harry." She says authoritatively. "I'm not saying it would have to be soon but, y'know, we are sort of going out, so it is a possibility for the future, right? And I think it would be a good way of making up with my family. Mum was really hurt by you not coming to Fred's funeral, and she does have a habit of holding grudges..."

I reply, desperately. "Ginny, your mum's just upset. I'm sure she'll forgive me soon enough."

Ginny shrugs, "Maybe. But now she thinks we're getting married, too, thanks to this stupid article. Do you think she'll forgive you if you break off our engagement, too?"

I splutter, "Ginny! We don't have an engagement to break off!"

"Doesn't matter." The red-head replies. "She thinks she does, and nothing either of us can do will shake off that idea. I'm trying to help you, Harry. I don't want you to fall out with the family. And I don't see why you're so against it! We are going out, after all."

I shout in reply, "Merlin, Ginny. We're not going out. We were going out a year ago, but then I ended it, remember?"

She looks genuinely confused. "Yeah, to go on your secret mission. But now that mission's over, I kind of assumed that we were back together."

"I can't right now, Gin'." I shake my head, getting off the bed. "After everything that's happened, I can't just settle down in a relationship again as if nothing's happened. I just need some time alone, to get to grips with things."

She doesn't reply, so I sit down again. "I'm haunted, Gin'. I really am. Every time I close my eyes I see all the people who died getting between me and him. I'd be a rubbish boyfriend right now."

I think that might be the most honest thing I've said all day, so I guess it's surprising that the recipient was Ginny. She still doesn't reply, so I stand up and leave, muttering an awkward apology as I do so.

_That probably could have been handled better, Harry._

Going back to the sitting room, I sit myself on the sofa next to George's armchair, where he's still sitting with his firewhisky. We nod solemnly at each other, both of us having suffered losses painful enough that we know that no words from anyone else will close the wound. Time truly is the only medicine for loss.

It is not long before Ginny comes back downstairs. She's been crying, I can tell, but has tried to hide it. Unfortunately, if I can tell then so can everyone else, which means that I have probably overstayed my welcome. If she tells everyone that I cancelled our wedding then I'm going to go be the Weasley family's public enemy number one, though I might be just that already.

_Bit unfair, really, considering the wedding I cancelled was only ever in Ginny's deluded imagination._

I get up, knowing that it's time to make a swift exit.

"George." I say to the solemn Weasley boy next to me. "I know there's nothing I can say to make you feel better because I've been there. Just be well, okay?"

He looked up at me, speaking for the first time. "That sounds like a farewell, Harry."

"It is, sort of." I look over to Ginny and Molly, the latter of the whom has a murderous expression on her face. "I've just told Ginny that I don't want to marry her, at least not yet, and I have a feeling that I'm not going to be welcome near your mother any time soon."

George sighed. "I should be angry at you, I suppose, but I can't bring myself to. You be well, too."

We nod in mutual understanding before I walk to the doorway, doing my best to go unnoticed. This may all be a false alarm; Ginny probably won't even tell her mum about our conversation because I really don't believe she'd get me in trouble on purpose, but Molly's maternal instincts will most likely pick up on the deeper problem, and she won't rest until Ginny tells her what it is. And that's why I've got to go.

"Going already, mate?" Ron asks from behind me, causing me to jump in surprise. He's sitting on the stairs with Hermione in his arms and for the first time, I think they actually look good together, so close and huddled up.

"Yeah, I've gotta get out of here. Your family aren't making me feel particularly welcome, it has to be said." I reply. It's not a lie, but that's not the reason I'm running away.

"Kinda brought that on yourself, mate." Ron replies. He doesn't mean it in a harsh way, I know, but he is viciously protective about his family.

Hermione slaps him lightly. "Ronald, don't be mean. Don't worry, Harry, everything will be fine once this funeral is over, I'm sure. That was the whole point of having it so early: so that we can all move on."

_That would probably be true, if Molly didn't think that I was breaking her daughter's heart. Merlin, this is all Rita Skeeter's fault. _

I reply, lazily. "Yeah, hopefully. Guess I'll see you two around, right?"

"Yeah!" Hermione says enthusiastically, having worried that I was trying to distance myself from them. "You're at Shell Cottage, aren't you?"

"Should be, whenever I'm not out doing Kingsley's bidding." I half-joke.

_Or when I'm visiting my godson, of course._

Hermione says affectionately, "Well, don't let him push you too hard, Harry."

I snort amusedly at that, as if anything Kingsley will make me do could possibly compare to the lengths we went to take down Voldemort. I smile at the two of them, my two best friends, and leave.

A quick apparation and I'm back at Shell Cottage, but I won't be for long. If Molly does manage to extricate the truth of what I said to Ginny, then I'm sure as hell not going to be welcome at her son's house. And even if, by some miracle, Molly doesn't find out, it'd still be nice to have a place of my own, even if that place is Grimmauld Place. Fleur's already found out about my attempts to become an illegal animagus; the last thing I need right now is Bill, or anyone else, finding out as well.

Evening is approaching fast, and I want to be gone before Bill and Fleur get home. Fortunately, I really don't have that much stuff. My broomstick, a pretty thin bag of clothes and my wand are pretty much the only things I own. But unfortunately, the mini-library that Kreacher brought me will add quite significantly to my baggage.

Surprisingly, it doesn't take long for me to learn how to put an effective undetectable extension charm on my rucksack. It's difficult magic, with an intricate wand flourish and rotation required, but phoenixes have always had a brilliant propensity for all things magical. I throw everything into the massive interior of my bag (apart from my wand, which stays firmly at my side) and am about to leave before I remember that I've forgotten something.

Fleur's charmed flowers, still as young and colourful as ever, are still sitting on my windowsill. I pull them from their vase and place them carefully on the rest of my possessions; Grimmauld Place is going to need a bit of colour, and a bit of life.

I scribble a quick note thanking my hosts profusely for their brief hospitality, and telling them where I am going. It's mostly directed at Fleur, who has become more than just a friend in the last forty eight hours, but a confidant and fellow godparent to Teddy.

Entering Grimmauld Place, I am pleased (and relieved) to see that Kreacher has managed to make the place somewhat respectable since my last visit. It's still downright creepy, with elf heads and dark wizards still leering down at me from the walls, but at least it isn't utterly filthy any more and the rotting smell that I had grown accustomed to is gone.

Still, no matter how shiny this place is, it'll always bring bad memories. I'll never forget my time here during the horcrux hunt, back when I had so little hope of actually succeeding. And the place will always remind me of Sirius; it's been years now since he fell through that veil, but I still find myself missing his sad eyes and cheeky grin pretty much every day.

Dumping my bag on the floor of the hallway, I draw my wand. The security of this place may have been compromised and although the threat of Death Eaters has all but subsided, I'd imagine that there are still a fair few people out there who want me dead. Besides, if they help keep Ginny out as well, then they've got to be worth it.

A few carefully placed detection charms mean that my wand will shoot sparks whenever someone walks up the front steps, and a few minor anti-intruder jinxes. If I can be bothered, I'll learn the fidelius charm so that I can put a new one up, but it seems a bit like overkill considering the war is supposed to be over. It's a tough spell to learn, but with my new found propensity for learning, I should be able to master it within a day or so.

Confident of my own safety, I lean back against the wall and sigh loudly. This must be the first time I've ever been in this dark, old house alone and I can't say that I'm enjoying the experience particularly. There isn't even Kreacher here to keep me company, because he's still spying on Kingsley. He'd better find out something useful; the Minister is definitely hiding something from me, and I think that I deserve to know what it is.

It's later in the evening, as I am studying some of my animagus books, that Kreacher returns.

"Kreacher has been looking for Master Harry," He says, breathlessly. "When he was not at the cottage, Kreacher worried. The scarred Weasley and his wife were arguing there, and I found Master Harry's note."

Hearing that Bill and Fleur are arguing makes me happy, for some reason, and I don't even feel particularly guilty.

"Slow down, Kreacher." I say to the diminutive elf, gesturing for him to sit next to me. "You're back earlier than I expected."

Unsurprisingly, he refuses my invitation to take a seat. "Kreacher wanted to finish the job for Master Harry as soon as possible."

He's become a good, loyal elf, has Kreacher; I make a mental note to reward him in some way, though Merlin knows how.

"So what did you find out?" I ask eagerly. "Is Kingsley hiding something?"

Kreacher looks up at me and, after a brief pause, nods his small head slowly.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**Sorry for the wait: I'll explain why at the end of the chapter. Also, I haven't had time to proofread this chapter, so I apologise in advance for any plot or grammatical mistakes. Enjoy the chapter!**

Immediately, I can tell that Kreacher has big news. His pointy ears and long, bony fingers seem to be trembling, and his sad eyes are as wide as saucers.

"Tell me, Kreacher." I say impatiently.

"There are still Death Eaters out there, Master Harry." Kreacher tells me worriedly. "The Minister said that a large group escaped from Hogwarts and are plotting their revenge. You are still not safe, Master Harry."

It makes sense. I'd always expected that a fair few Death Eaters would have run from the battle or escape when they saw their master fall, but I'd assumed that they would split up and go into hiding their separate ways. The Death Eaters are a random assortment of the criminally insane, blood-hungry, purist rejects of society; to unite them takes someone uniquely inspiring. And I had that thought the only person capable of organising this unhinged group was dead, never to return. But if the escaped Death Eaters are staying in a group, that means that they are still a threat to me and the wizarding community.

"Why wouldn't Kingsley tell me that?" I wonder aloud. "He must have known that this news puts me at risk, so why wouldn't he warn me?"

Ah. Everything is falling into place now. He had been quite insistent that I stay at the Burrow or Shell Cottage, where I would be safe. I had not really understood what the danger was at that point, but he must have known that the Death Eaters were still at large. But still, why would he not tell me?

"If Kreacher may speak, Master Harry," Kreacher inputs, "The Minister does not want this information getting out. He says that the public need to feel safe."

_Just like Fudge._

"Does he know where the Death Eaters are?" I ask my loyal elf.

"He did not say, Master Harry." Kreacher replies, "But if Master wants, Kreacher will go back and try to find more information?" 

I seriously consider it for a second, since he's done such a good job so far, but eventually decide that it's time for me to get my own hands dirty. I've got enough information at my disposal that I can force Kingsley to tell me what I need to know. Who is he to decide what information is relevant to me?

I reply, "No, Kreacher. You've done magnificently already. Go and get some rest."

For some reason, I give him an affectionate pat on the head. And to think, just a year ago I was unwilling to even go near the newly friendly little elf. It's funny how times, and people, can change.

He nods drearily and starts to plod from the room, before turning his head. "Master Harry is not going to go looking for the Death Eaters, is he?"

_Obviously._

"No, Kreacher." I lie. "But I want to make sure that the Ministry does, so that we can all be safe again."

Weirdly, it actually feels worse lying to my house elf than it does to Ginny. It's nice that he's concerned about me, anyway.

The loyal little elf goes upstairs and although I doubt he'll actually get any rest, I'm glad that he even considered it. As for me: I have a bone to pick with the Minister for Magic.

I'm getting ready to leave as my wand, holstered safely at my side, starts to shoot red sparks. Someone's come to find me, and I have a pretty good idea who it is. Swiftly after, there comes a dainty but firm knock on the door.

I open the door to reveal, unsurprisingly, Fleur. Normally I'd be over the moon that she'd come by to chat, but right now I have a Minister to grill.

"You moved out." She says simply. "Is it because of Ginny?"

I groan, "What did she tell everyone?"

"Nothing, at first." Fleur admitted, "But her mother knew that something was wrong and forced it out of her."

She puts her hand on my shoulder, reassuringly. Her touch is impossibly light, like the weight of a falling feather on the skin, but the gesture emanates warmth.

"You did the right thing, 'Arry." She reassures me. "You should not feel obliged to marry 'er just because she would make a fuss ozzerwise."

_Hmm, that accent seems to be wavering a bit: she must be upset._

I laugh bitterly: "I can't imagine that the Weasleys saw it the same way?"

"Not _all _of them, no." She replies shortly. I knows she's referring to Bill, and that she doesn't want to talk about it any more. If what Kreacher told me is true, they must have had one hell of an argument about it. I'm just grateful that Fleur stood up for me.

We stand in silence for a few moments before Fleur clears her throat. "Erm, so are we going to continue talking on the doorstep or are you going to invite me in?"

"I was just heading out, actually." I say awkwardly. "Need to talk to Kingsley about something."

The French witch narrows her eyes, obviously still suspicious about what's going on between me and the Minister. "Let me come with you, then."

Her mind is made up, so that's that. I'm yet to meet anybody capable of changing this woman's made when she's made a decision. But I'm definitely going to have to play this very carefully indeed.

"Fine." I reluctantly acquiesce, closing the door to Grimmuald Place behind me and casting a few intricate locking charms.

We have to walk a few metres to leave the purview of my anti-apparition wards.

"So this is where you are living now?" Fleur asks, grimacing at the dark, grimy façade of my inherited home. "All by yourself?"

I nod with a grimace of my own. "Yeah, it was my godfather's. Now it's mine."

"You do not talk much about your godfather. What was he like?"

It's easy to forget that Fleur really doesn't know that much about me. Everyone around me seems to know my life story as well as I do; after all, here in England, I'm a cultural and historical figure. There are enough books written about me to fill a library, and people actually buy them. Where Fleur comes from, I guess that people probably recognise my name, but that's where my fame ends.

I reply, "You never met him, did you?"

She shakes her head, looking at me very carefully. Under her gaze, it is easy for one to feel like a test subject in some kind of weird experiment.

I don't normally talk about Sirius with anyone, but I decide to indulge her curiosity just a little bit. "He was the best." I say simply: "closest thing to a father I ever had. Anyway, we should be out of range of the wards by now."

The French witch notices my blatant excuse to end the conversation and, thankfully, elects to end her enquiry there. Seriously, if there's one person that I really don't like talking about, it's Sirius. To this day I know that if I hadn't fallen for Voldemort's trick; if I'd just listened to what Snape was trying to teach me about occlumency, then surely I'd still have a godfather...

"Okay," I say, relieved. "We're going to apparate into Kingsley's office. Can you picture it or do we need to go side-along?"

Fleur furrows her thin, sleek eyebrows. "I did not know that it is possible to apparate into the Ministry."

"It's not, normally." I confirm. "The Ministry normally has the second most powerful wards in the world, but they're down at the moment while everything's being repaired. Which is useful for us."

She probably can't visualise Kingsley's office as well as I can, so I lightly clench my fingers around her thin arm. A shock runs up my skin as we touch: Fleur truly is electric. A second later, we're standing in the oak-furnished office of the Minister for Magic.

It's lavishly decorated like a grand throne room of a medieval castle, with shiny wooden walls and a shiny mahogany desk, in which intricate designs and patterns have been painstakingly carved. The carpet is coloured a deep, regal red, illuminated by a small crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. And, standing tall in front of two high bookcases, is the Minister's chair, as ornate and golden as any king's throne.

I've visited this room a few times before but, even in Fudge's era, it has never been so heavily decorated. Whoever sat in this room must have fancied themselves a ruler, not an elected politician.

Fleur is clearly as disgusted as I am. "Zhis iz vulgar."

Her accent appears to turn deliciously French when she's indignant which, accompanied by her expression of furrowed eyebrows and a small pout, I find stupidly cute.

Kingsley isn't here, but he he has been recently. There's a bottle of muggle scotch on the ornate desk, half empty, with a small glass accompanying it. Some of the alcohol has spilled on the desk but Kingsley hasn't made any effort to clean it up, suggesting to me that he's as disparaging towards his office as I am.

The office overlooks the famous Ministry atrium, which is currently the site of a massive repair operation. There are tens of workers trying to remove the purist propaganda that the Death Eaters charmed onto the walls, while others are starting to demolish the golden fountain commissioned during Voldemort's short regime. It's a pretty large operation, so I can see why the apparition wards have been taken down, and I'm glad that everything's returning to usual.

"Promise me that you will never become Minister of Magic." Fleur says, gliding to my side, still disgusted by the room's shameless egotism.

That makes me laugh: "I wouldn't worry about that."

To be honest, I'm not even sure if I'm going to stay in the country for much longer. It's been my plan for quite a while now, to travel the world, and maybe settle down somewhere where I won't be recognised and followed every time I take a walk down the street. It's not as if I've got much keeping me here, not any more. Ron and Hermione don't need me any more, not now they're together, and in a way, now that I'm safe I don't need them either. The rest of the Weasleys are probably going to hate me for breaking young Ginny's heart, though of course they'd probably have hated me if I'd married her, too.

It's just young Teddy I'm waiting for. I'm not leaving him behind, not after what happened to his parents and what they did for me.

I feel the light touch of Fleur's hand on my arm. "Are you okay?"

"Uh, yeah." I reply casually. "Fine. Why d'you ask?"

Those intense eye fix on me in a glare, because she can always tell when I'm lying. "Do you not trust me? Is zhat it? Because I know when something iz wrong, 'Arry. You 'ave been staring into zhe distance for zhe last five minutes."

"Get off my back, Fleur." I snap back. "I was just thinking, okay?"

Before she can reply, the gleaming oak door opens without a hint of a squeak and the Minister enters.

"Hello Harry, Fleur." Kingsley says coolly, as though he's not in the least bit surprised to see us or angry that we're in his office.

Casually, he saunters to his desk and sits back in his chair. Barely looking at us, he finishes pouring himself that glass of scotch that I'd noticed upon entering and takes a confident sip.

"So what brings you here?" He says, cradling his glass.

I can't help but think that he occupies that chair like a king in his throne, addressing his subjects. It's most likely a power play, I know, reserved solely for me.

I turn to Fleur. "Will you give us a moment, Fleur? I need to talk to the Minister about something privately."

She continues to glare at me. "No. Something 'as put you in a foul mood and I want to know what."

"Let her stay," Kingsley buts in. "Anything you can say to me, you can say to her."

He's trying to take control of the meeting, exert his authority. One thing's for sure about Kingsley: he's a sly operator.

"I'm not concerned about how trustworthy she is." I reply, taking a seat in one of the chairs at his desk. "I was trying to spare you the embarrassment of her hearing what I'm about to accuse you of."

He raises his eyebrows curiously, but I know a façade when I see one. Underneath that cool, inquisitive expression, he's rattled. Fleur looks at me with a similar curiosity, taking a seat of her own.

Pretty certain that I've managed to wrestle back control of the meeting, I continue. "Kingsley, is it true that the Death Eaters have been totally obliterated?"

He strikes a thoughtful pose. "Well, Harry, I'm afraid that I can't honestly tell you that every single Death Eater has been brought to justice. The occasional straggler escaped from the Battle of Hogwarts, but they are very few in number and spread out. In fact, they've probably left the country by now."

"Don't lie to me Kingsley." I say firmly. "I'm the one who beat Voldemort and put you into your position as minister in the first place. Lie to anybody else and pretend it's for security, fine, but not me."

He takes a long swig of scotch.

Fleur intervenes. "'Arry, why do you think 'e is lying? And what about?" 

"I have a source," I reply simply, "Who told me that at least a dozen Death Eaters have escaped and formed a group."

Kingsley replies, "As I said: stragglers. We'll have them within days."

"No, these aren't just stragglers." I say. "They've formed a group. And to form a group, they must have a leader who can keep them from each other's throats. And I was under the impression that the only person capable of doing that was dead, by my hand. A group of Death Eaters with a leader are not stragglers, Kingsley. They're dangerous."

He stands up, for once showing his anger. "Oh, you think I don't know that, Harry? You forget that I saw what these people are capable of doing, too. So don't accuse you accuse me of not doing my job. The situation is... delicate. More than you know."

"So tell us." Fleur prompted, crossing one hairless leg over the other.

Kingsley replies, "I fully intend to. Once Harry has told me how he came to know all of this."

Hmm. That's a clever move. For me to find out what I want to know, I've got to confess to the one thing I really don't want to talk about.

"Kreacher overheard you talking about it and thought it right to report back to me." I say. It's not a lie, but it's far from the whole truth.

Kingsley laughs. "I would never have talked about that in public. I doubt that your elf just so happened to overhear me."

"What are you implying?" Fleur lowers her eyebrows.

The Minister stands and begins to pace behind his desk, every so often taking a sip from his glass.

"Kreacher would've had no reason to be in my office, which is the only place I have ever discussed this, unless he was asked to do so."

"'Arry!" Fleur looks at me, thunderstruck. "Tell me it is not true!"

With a sigh, I say: "I thought that Kingsley was hiding something and I was right. I did what I had to. Now, Minister, you can fulfil your side of the bargain."

All this time I'm trying desperately not to look in Fleur's direction. I know the expression that will be gracing that indescribably beautiful face: disappointment. Everyone has that one person in their life that they really don't want to let down, and that person for me is fast becoming Fleur. She's my moral compass, my anchor; everyone else has already seen me at my worst.

"What I'm about to tell you two is totally confidential." Kingsley says dramatically, sitting down once more. "I don't want anybody, even Ron or Hermione, knowing. I hope, Harry, that this proves that I trust you."

I grunt in reply, which he takes to signal my agreement.

"You are absolutely right when you say that the Death Eaters are still a danger." He explains solemnly. "They have found a refuge, where we can't touch them."

Myself and Fleur are both sitting forward in our plush chairs, now, in suspense.

They have taken refuge in Azkaban prison." Kingsley continues. "And have learned from the methods we used to keep them from getting out. There are only about a dozen of them there, we think, but we couldn't take that fortress with one thousand men."

"Why not?" Fleur asks. Azkaban has a global reputation, but apparently Fleur doubts that it is a totally unassailable fortress.

I explain: "Azkaban has only one way in, which a small force would have no trouble defending. It has strong wards all the way around it, meaning that apparition is out of the question. But, it's surrounded by water."

"So make a new way in," Fleur says quite simply, as though she's discussing the weather. "Blow a hole in the wall."

I look to Kingsley, suspecting that the solution won't be that simple.

"Unfortunately, Fleur, the walls of Azkaban have been strengthened by the most powerful resistance charms out there. Trust me, I was part of the team who cast them: it would be like trying to split a mountain in two."

The Minister stands up, and for the first time I realise just how old he is beginning to look. He's been in his position for a couple of weeks, and already he looks like he's aged several years. Long wrinkles are beginning to assert themselves around his emotionless eyes, and I can tell that he's barely slept in days.

"Our current strategy," He continues, "Is to wait it out. They only have limited supplies, so they can't stay there forever. The moment they try to leave, we'll get them, when they're at their most vulnerable."

He yawns massively, finally breaking his indomitable façade, which I see as our cue to leave.

I stand, adjust my shirt, and help Fleur to her feet. She doesn't catch my eye. "Thanks for confiding in us, Kingsley, though next time I'd prefer for you just to tell me out right."

Fleur scowls: "I fear zhat iz the best you will get from 'Arry today, Kingsley." She leans in to kiss him on the cheek. "Thank you for telling us."

With that, she turns on her heel and marches from the room, leaving me at her tail. Grumbling, I job to catch up with her, not even stopping to admire the sensual sway of her hips as she walks.

"I've disappointed you." I state simply.

With nothing but a shake of her head, which sends slim strands of silvery hair in all directions, in acknowledgement, she continues her long strides several paces ahead of me. Embarrassingly, she is actually a tiny bit taller than me, mostly due to the exquisite length of her muscular legs, and can therefore walk at a pretty quick pace.

"Fine, ignore me." I say, stopping. "Really mature of you."

She stops in her tracks, even from behind visibly seething, and stands still for a few seconds. By this point, I'm getting the impression that I might've said the wrong thing. Unfortunately, I've never really had much of a propensity for apologising.

"You think that I am immature?" She boils, and then turns on her heel to face me, doing her best Molly Weasley impression. "I am not the one who spied on the Minister for Magic because I was too proud to ask him what was going on, and admit that I don't know everything."

She strides towards me; her face, where anyone else's would have been beetroot red, was a stupidly attractive rosy pink, which reaffirms my suspicion that she'd look good wearing even a bin liner. An angry veela is a frightful sight indeed, but I stand my ground.

"He refused to tell me what was going on." I half-lie, crossing my arms. "I had no choice but to take matters into my hands."

"Even if that were true," she says, now close enough that I can smell the ethereal scent of her perfume, "you chose to spy on your friend. For all I know you could be spying on me. Are you?"

I spit, "No! Of course not! What a ridiculous suggestion!"

Fleur continues her flaming rampage: "You just could not stand it, could you? Not being the centre of attention, for once. Not being the hero. For goodness sake, 'Arry, you are not zhe sole guardian of our order. The reason that Kingsley did not tell you is that he wanted to protect you, and for zhe record I think that he was right."

It takes me a few moments to reply, but when I do my voice is low and quiet. "How do you know that?"

She crosses her arms defiantly. "Because 'e told me at the funeral. And we agreed not to tell you. I had to pretend that I didn't know."

"You had no right to keep me in the dark." I say, betrayed, in a steely voice.

She lets out a short, humourless laugh: "We had every right, because we were trying to keep you safe. Kingsley cares about you, 'Arry."

I begin to protest, but she cuts me off.

"And so do I."

We stand in silence for what seems like hours, staring directly at each other. For once, I have no stubborn comeback, having been caught off guard by a rare glimpse into the heart that she tries so hard to shield. And suddenly, time speeds up again: before I know it, my lips are on those of Bill's wife, and I'm loving every second of it.

**Rare author note: It's been a while since I last posted, I know, and I'm afraid that I'm going to struggle to keep my former pace. Unfortunately, I've got my GCSEs this year, which are pretty much dominating my life right now. However, the good thing is that I've got a three month Summer holiday after that, during which I promise to post very regularly. So if you'll bear with my slow pace for the next couple of months, I'll make it up to you after.**

**Thanks a lot, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter.**


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